


Love Through It All

by this_is_madness



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_madness/pseuds/this_is_madness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an AU where Mary was just a short-ish fling that helped John cope with life without Sherlock.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where Mary was just a short-ish fling that helped John cope with life without Sherlock.

Sherlock’s fingers pressed together on his lips, his eyes closed, as he tried to focus past the throbbing of his head. The overwhelming input of information into his vast brain took a toll and that toll was a mild headache from time to time. He could hear everything that happened in Baker Street: the ticking clock at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson laughing as she talked on the phone, the buzz of the refrigerator, the honks of London, the clicking of John typing. He honed in on that sound, a sound he had become accustomed to over the year of their living together. The consistency of it aided in his thought process, and he smiled to himself as his frantic brain, so much sensory input pining for his attention, slowly focused on the problem at hand. A case; a murder, of course; he had wrapped it up quite nicely—however, it wasn’t the case itself that bothered him, rather Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had been less than willing to let him aid and he hadn’t a clue why. Weeks had passed since the DI had called him, but he knew that the man was riddled with cases; why wasn’t he using Sherlock more?  


  
“He’s self conscious,” John spoke, making Sherlock startle. Sherlock peeled open one eye hesitantly.  


  
“Self conscious?” he asked, truly curious and slightly impressed that John had guessed his line of thought.  


  
“Lestrade,” John clarified, earning an eye roll from his flatmate. “You’ve been helping more than usual, and he’s facing a lot of public ridicule because of it. The public appreciates your help, and you, but they’re questioning his abilities even more; he doesn’t need to look like more of an idiot now that the prodigal son, mind you, the one he was in part blamed for his death, returns. He has to prove that he can efficiently solve crimes, keep the public safe, without the help of a so-called ‘amateur’.”  
Sherlock glared at John, not because he was angry with his friend, but rather because of what he was insinuating.  


  
“Say what you mean, John,” Sherlock spat.  


  
“I just did, Sherlock,” he replied, his voice a sigh all itself.  


  
“No, there’s more,” Sherlock said with certainty, closing his eyes and thinking once more. “You think I should back off for a bit.”  


  
“I would never suggest that,” John said quietly, his tone changing in a way Sherlock didn’t quite recognize. He kept his eyes closed, however, not wanting to see the expression that undoubtedly creased John’s forehead and pulled his thick lips down in a pout that Sherlock could trace in his sleep. He didn’t like how much John frowned—especially because, despite popular belief of his indifference to others’ emotions, he was always acutely aware that the majority of John’s frowns were due to Sherlock himself—but it made his smiles more appreciated. Which brought his attention back to another aspect of John’s statement.  


  
“And society does not appreciate me,” Sherlock intoned moodily. “It is amused by me, uses me, some even believe in me, but appreciation suggests care, and none of those mundane fools truly care for me. The idea of me, perhaps. But not me.”  


  
The clicking of the keys stopped for a fraction of a second and Sherlock snuck a peek from underneath his lashes as John rubbed his forehead and sighed softly, sadly. Sherlock knew it bothered John that he believed no one cared for him. However, whether it bothered him or not, it didn’t make it less true. Beyond his parents, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, John himself, Molly, and perhaps even Lestrade, no one cared for him—that was fine with Sherlock, he hated the sentiment anyway.  


  
John picked his laptop off his lap gingerly, closing and placing it on the coffee table. “Tea?”  


  
Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”  


  
Sherlock watched him saunter into the kitchen, preparing the tea with a ghost-like ere; his head was somewhere else. Sherlock respected John not only because he was smarter than the average person, but also because he was far more complex on a fundamental level. Every tiny aspect of the John that met the eye was contradicted by a deeper sense of him, another version. There was Captain Watson, Doctor Watson, etc. So many different best friends, and he never failed to surprise Sherlock; in fact, even after years of living together, even after a plethora of case work together, every soft, breathy amazing, or brilliant that John uttered surprised Sherlock. The two years he spent away from John…well, he refused to admit to himself the agony. He refused to force his brilliant mind to analyze the utter joy that made his heart skip, his eyes tear the moment he truly saw John for the first time at that restaurant, on some shabby date. He watched his lovely flatmate as he made his way around the kitchen, pouring steaming water into two mugs, allowing the tea bag to steep, breathing in the warm vapors—  


  
Wait. What had Sherlock just thought? Had he just referred to John as lovely? Sherlock sat forward, allowing himself to dwell on his little passing mental comment. Lovely. Was John lovely? He was a lovely person, surely; all doctors were supposed to be, but John much more so. He was dependable, loyal until death, strong like a rock—that was certainly appealing in a way that could be called, Sherlock supposed, lovely. Moreover, Sherlock was not blind to physical appearances, either; he knew the physical correlations between those deemed “lovely” and the golden ratio. John certainly fit that ratio to a certain extent, surely an extent that could be described as lovely. Was that what he meant? Had he remarked to himself that John was lovely in a physical or emotional sense? Both? How long had he thought this? What did this observation mean?  


  
“Oi,” John said, a little too loudly. Sherlock opened his eyes, which he hadn’t fully realized he had closed. John held out the hot mug of tea to Sherlock, his impatience growing. 

  
Had he called Sherlock’s name? Most likely, or else he wouldn’t be nearly as agitated.  


  
“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, taking the hot ceramic in both his hands and taking in a deep, cleansing breathe of the steam. John had, per usual, made his the tea perfectly, the exact way he had come to like it. He smiled into his cup admiringly.  


  
“What are you smiling about?” John said, sitting back in his armchair. “Is the mug truly _that_ pleasing?”  


  
“Oh, John, don’t be absurd,” Sherlock admonished. “I wasn’t smiling at the mug.”  


  
“Oh? What then?”  


  
Sherlock paused. He couldn’t exactly tell John that he’d been smiling like an imbecile into his cup not because he liked the cup, but rather because he liked the tea. That sounded moronic to the umpth degree. Instead, he stood and went to his armchair opposite John and stared him down.  


  
“How long do you think until Lestrade calls with the next case?” Sherlock demanded. Sherlock could only solve so many private cases before he yearned for what murderous, treacherous villain the New Scotland Yard could offer.  


  
John shrugged, furthering Sherlock’s frustration with the mere indifference of the motion. “I honestly can’t say Sherlock. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe he’ll call tomorrow. Or maybe he’ll wait a few days—Scotland Yard did get along just fine before you came along, Sherlock. They are capable of solving things solely on their own.”  


  
Sherlock blew out an incredulous scoff and rolled his eyes at John. “Please,” he claimed. “They’ll try and come running within the week.”  
“Clearly modesty is your best trait,” John said under his breath, picking up the paper from the coffee table and flipping through it; Sherlock watched with a strange captivation. One of John’s skilled surgeon hands held the paper aloft gracefully whilst the other held his tea beneath his nose. He inhaled the steam briefly, and then took a swig of the hot herby water. A smile flickered across his face as his eyes darted up to meet Sherlock’s, making him start in surprise.  


  
“Why are you staring?” John inquired softly, as if not to scare off Sherlock. Sherlock was so startled at being caught doing something so intimately strange that he simply huffed and stood, walking to the window and retrieving his violin and bow. Instantly, he began on a long, eloquent piece he had written years ago. It sounded too boisterous for his tastes after a moment, though, so he switched to a more somber tone, another of his own compositions, one riddled with drawn out low notes in succession. Behind him, he heard John close the paper and place it on the table; he heard John take a small sip of his tea and swore he could feel the weight of his gaze on his back, warm and welcome. A small sigh escaped the other man, and Sherlock smiled as he played, for it was not John’s usual exasperated or irritated sigh, but rather one of a comforting contentment. John used to read while Sherlock played, or clean or blog. But now, since Sherlock had been back (over six months), John sat and listened. Sherlock knew that John had missed his playing—Sherlock knew John had missed a lot of things in his absence, including himself. Sherlock felt himself warm as he thought of John happy to simply sit and listen to Sherlock play his instrument of choice. With the warmth, the melody changed into not so much happier, but a higher piece, which wafted through 221B gracefully. He watched the cars below, driving through the murky water that nearly always covered the pavement, watched the women in their heels clicking along on their boring little lives, unawares of the mad genius staring down at them. It was a scary sort of power he felt at times, being able to know people with a simple glance—a power he had used and exploited…that is, before John. Before John, he had no one to remind him what was “a bit not good”, he had no one to pardon his way through society, he had no one. It was lonely, but it hadn’t really bothered him then; however, Sherlock had never realized how much he truly hated solitude until he was deprived of his John for two years. He liked having an audience, one who truly appreciated what he had to offer, not to utilize, but, rather, simply, to witness, to appreciate. John was the audience he needed and, he hoped, Sherlock was the show he wanted to see.  


  
A gentle snore startled Sherlock from his music; he carefully lulled the melody into oblivion and turned to find John had fallen asleep. Furthermore, he found that somehow, the sun had set and it was now late evening. When had he started to play? He remembered it hadn’t been far past four in the afternoon. What time was it now? He leaned down and picked up John’s phone, clicking the lock button to display the time: 11:00. How the time flew; he looked around, not knowing what to do now; it was John’s shiver that made him turn, his eyes automatically in search of a blanket. However, somehow, he found none; instead, his eyes landed on his very own grey wool coat, large enough to drape over John and nearly cover him. He grabbed it without a second thought and draped it over his friend. Instantly, John’s face relaxed further. Sherlock smiled down at him and headed into the kitchen to do some light experimentation before the wonderfully quiet night hours waned away into the loud, inherently annoying bustle of a day in the city. 

***

John awoke with a start, a hand automatically flitting to his mouth in an attempt to muffle the panicked yell scraping its way from his throat, with little success; gunfire echoed in his head, the images of soldier patients still visible behind his eyelids, and the hand that obscured his mouth trembled. He was confused shortly by his surroundings: the fact that he was sitting up and that he was covered by a deliciously familiar wool coat. He inhaled, closing his eyes briefly, allowing the scent of Sherlock to calm his rapid heart. It had been over a few years since he had been back from Afghanistan, but the nightmares were just as present as they were in the beginning, plaguing his slumber as often as four or five times a week. Before Sherlock had left, they had diminished to barely two or three times a week. In his absence though, they were nearly every night. Now that he was back, they were becoming less frequent again. He had at least perfected the art of calming himself down in the time, though tonight had been a record. His heart rate was already back to normal and the left over bits of terror were already vanishing like mist back into the darkest depths of his mind. He didn’t know what was different, other than Sherlock’s coat…  


  
John’s eyes snapped open immediately at that thought. Happenstance, he assured himself, banishing all subconscious connotative assumptions having to do with Sherlock’s coat in relation to his calamity and the eradication thereof to another hidden recess of his mind. He yawned and finally took in his surroundings; it must be very late because the TV was off, and Sherlock was not at the window playing anymore. A snore startled John into standing, deftly catching the coat as it slid from his body and throwing it over one arm. Sherlock was slumped over a microscope at the kitchen table, head cradled on one hand, snoring softly and drooling onto a slide. A small smile crept across John’s face as he stared at the sleeping genius, who had without a doubt denied his body until his exhaustion took over completely. A small shiver ran down John’s spine as he watched the lids of his best friend’s eyes twitch lightly, offering Sherlock an escape in dreams, one John was sure he needed.  


  
John had always found it interesting that Sherlock did not like to sleep; he had, at first, figured it was due to the unnecessary loss of time Sherlock could be spending experimenting on post-mortem eyeballs, chasing criminals into the deepest, darkest allies, or setting the couch on fire—again. However, as John repeatedly experienced Sherlock’s boredom over their time together, he noticed that whilst Sherlock was in one of his “black moods”, as John had begun referring to them as, he was particularly resistant to sleep. It made John wonder what sort of dreams Sherlock experienced, why he denied his brain a chance to manipulate his consciousness into whatever it wanted. John obviously had a horribly dark place from which his unconscious illusions sprouted from whilst he slept, and he wondered if Sherlock was plagued by similar frights.  
John was shaken from his dark reverie as he saw a shiver race down Sherlock’s spine; it was cold in the flat, per usual. John grimaced. He couldn’t let Sherlock sleep at the table, certainly not when he was finally actually sleeping. By the movement of his eyes, Sherlock was deep in the throes of his imaginings, the deepest part of sleep; therefore, John believed waking him briefly to prompt him into his room would not completely enable consciousness to drag hold of Sherlock’s attentions.  
John kneeled down next to his flatmate and patted the hand that lay next to the microscope on the table.  


  
“Sherlock,” he murmured gently, prodding the cold hand. “Sherlock, you need to get into your bed; you can’t sleep at the table.”  


  
Sherlock barely stirred for a nanosecond to let out one small hum before falling back into slumber. John frowned and stood, putting a hand on Sherlock’s head. He couldn’t upset the detective, or the irritation might pull him past the point of falling back to sleep. John settled for gently stroking Sherlock’s soft, thick curls twice.  


  
“Sherlock, come with me,” John murmured, leaning closer to Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock, let’s go to bed.”  


  
He knew that if Sherlock were awake, he would absolutely hate the patronizing tone John was using, as if he were a small child coerced into naptime (not that that was far from what was actually happening). However, as it was, Sherlock woke a bit, blurry eyes opening into drowsy slits as he turned to look at John sluggishly. John’s face was just inches from Sherlock’s and this seemed to dully surprise the detective, as his eyes widened a little more. John pulled back slightly, to keep Sherlock in the sleepy haze that would allow for further slumber.  


  
“Come on,” John said softly, gently taking Sherlock’s elbow and pulling slightly. “You need to get into bed.”  


  
Sherlock seemed confused for a moment but then slowly nodded, standing on unsteady legs and walking with John into his dark room. The bed was cluttered with miscellaneous things that John didn’t let himself look at for long.  


  
“Wait a moment,” John told Sherlock. “I’ll clear it off for you.”  


  
John hurriedly took off things, placing them on the floor without further inspection; quickly, the bed cleared—but there were no signs of a comforter, simply thin, undoubtedly Egyptian cotton blue sheets. It was too late to look, though, for Sherlock had already collapsed on the bed, somehow undressed. He wore only his boxer briefs and John forced himself to look away from the crimson silk and disregard the question of how he had done it so quickly and silently. Instead, he looked frantically around the room for the comforter as the first wave of shivers ran over Sherlock’s body. A low moan alerted John to Sherlock’s further awakening. Luckily, John still had Sherlock’s coat draped over his arm and he threw that over Sherlock’s body for the time being. Instantly, Sherlock’s distress vaporized and he relaxed fully into the pillow. John ran out into the living room and retrieved a woven blanket from a cupboard under a bookshelf and hurried back to Sherlock’s room, draping it over the detective and his coat. 

***

Sherlock woke to the sound of the teakettle screaming its announcement of boiled water; he was only in his pants and it took him a moment to remember undressing, and going to bed. Slowly though, the sleepy haze of John’s assistance bubbled to the surface. Usually, such obviously sentimental and benign muddling over his well-being would annoy Sherlock but he felt rather calmed and cared for. A smile brushed across his features as he noticed both a blanket and the coat he had bestowed upon John himself obliterating the chill from his largely bare body.  


  
He pulled the covers back and stretched languorously, not at all appreciating the fact that his muscles ached and his joints creaked as he did so. He just added these to the side effects of slumber. He hated sleeping, not at all enjoying the things that his large and somewhat morbid brain chose to show him, but it, occasionally, was a necessary evil. However, to Sherlock’s slight disappointment, the headache still thumped at his temples; it was easily ignored. He walked to his dresser and pulled on a t-shirt, a pair of loose flannel trousers, and finally his blue dressing gown, which he let fall open. He then folded up the knit blanket and walked out to greet his friend.  


  
“Good morning, Sherlock,” John said, stationed in front of the toaster patiently as Sherlock entered the kitchen.  


  
“Where does this go?” Sherlock asked and John took the blanket, putting it into a small cupboard under the shelves to the left of the kitchen. Sherlock tucked the information away for later use.  


  
The toast popped from the toaster with great velocity but John caught the pieces, perfectly golden brown, on their trajectory towards the ceiling.  


  
“That damn thing hasn’t been the same since you tweaked with it, Sherlock,” John muttered and Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea before sitting on the couch and grabbing John’s phone. He heard John put in two more pieces of bread but did not acknowledge that or his previous statement. Instead, he tapped out a quick message to Lestrade:  


  
**Anything I can help with? –SH**  


  
The toaster popped out the two additional slices of bread and soon John walked over, placing a plate of buttered toast with a thin drizzle of honey on either piece in front of Sherlock before sitting in his armchair and opening that day’s paper, balancing his own plate of toast on one thigh. Sherlock looked at the toast with mock horror, knowing John was watching his reaction to the food.  


  
“When was the last time you ate?” John asked and Sherlock could only remember half a dreadful cucumber finger sandwich offered to him while on a case many days ago. He knew that there was probably something since then, but he could not place anything, so he picked up one of the slices and took a bite of the simple sweet. He still held John’s phone in his hand and was acutely aware when it buzzed, indicating a reply. Sherlock opened it hurriedly.  


  
**Nope. –GL**  


  
Sherlock practically growled at the device and flung it down roughly on the table.  


  
“Oi!” John warned. “That’s mine, remember. Don’t take your anger out on my phone—abuse your own!”  


  
Sherlock offered him a small sneer, but settled back into the couch, slowly chewing on his toast. John sat, silently reading the paper but occasionally allowing himself a quick glance at Sherlock, as if to check what he was doing. He wasn’t doing anything, which was why he was so utterly bored. Sherlock realized that was probably the reason John was glancing nervously at him; he was sensing the arrival of what he called a “black mood”—when Sherlock was faced with nothing to occupy his great mind and had to strive to appeal it all on his own.  


  
It was difficult; it was in these spouts of boredom that Sherlock had originally turned to drugs; they made him think in such clear, concise terms. He could see or do anything, and he was never bored. His brilliance was not stifled but brightened, like a polished diamond, or sharpening a blade to a precise, fatal point.  
John would never stand for that, though. He would rather see Sherlock bored to death than allow him to kill himself slowly in such a way. He would truly like never to see Sherlock kill himself again despite the means, Sherlock was sure. His initial incredulousness at Lestrade’s so-called drug bust so long ago was both naïve and comforting; when he found out, he wasn’t disappointed like so many others, but rather surprised. Further, he was convinced that Sherlock would not slip back into his old habits, more sure than even Sherlock himself at times. His lack of initial disappointment instilled within Sherlock a goal of never truly disappointing him; sure, there were times when John was disappointed in Sherlock’s seemingly lack of care for people, especially those involved (but not suspect) in a case. However, that was part of Sherlock’s process and John quietly respected that. He wasn’t even disappointed in Sherlock for jumping off Bart’s, Sherlock believed. Just…heartbroken. Sherlock decided he would much rather disappoint John than hurt him in such a way again.  


  
“Sherlock!” the call for his attention was sharp and suggested that he had missed previous attempts by John. He snapped his attention to the man standing in front of him.  


  
“What?” he asked shortly and John took a deep breath, channeling his doctor’s patience.  


  
“Do you want more?” he asked slowly. Sherlock looked down at his plate and saw that he had eaten both slices. He thought for a moment, noticing, for the first time in a very long time, that he wasn’t repulsed by the idea of eating. He knew this feeling would be short, this non-abhorrence, so he nodded.  


  
“Actually, would you like to go out to breakfast?” Sherlock blurted. “I’m quite hungry and I know neither of us would like to cook.”  


  
John’s surprise was evident across his face, but it was quickly replaced by suspicion, automatically questioning Sherlock’s hidden motives, and trying to mask the suspicion as soon as he realized it. But it was too late—usually, Sherlock would not care if people suspected his motives, but with John it was…different. He hid the flash of pain though, and smiled coyly.  


  
“We don’t have to…” he said slowly, and John’s eyes grew large, weighing the promise of forcing Sherlock into the consumption of food over the motives behind it.  


  
“No, no! Let’s go,” John nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll get dressed. Be ready in a few.”  


  
He scurried up the stairs animatedly and Sherlock truly grinned at his excitement. He wanted to go to Angelo’s, but knew it was probably too early for that; instead, as he walked to his room, he decided on a small breakfast place that his brother fancied. They had very good crepes, allegedly, though Sherlock didn’t quite know if he liked crepes or not.  


  
He dressed himself in his usual attire, adorning a deep purple shirt that he had noticed elicited an interesting reaction from John once or twice. Sherlock was aware of the attraction and had, as the saying goes, nipped it in the bud, back in the beginning, the heated moments at Angelo’s. It had been what Sherlock needed to do, what he had wanted to do back then. He didn’t want a relationship, especially not with anyone who seemed so obviously normal as John had at first impression. However, that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed the signs—the biological chemistry was evident as were the nonverbal, subconscious cues: dilated pupils, increased heart rate, dry mouth, licking of the lips, etc. Then he had made the right choice, he had known what to do with John’s fascination. Now, however, he was less clear. He had expected it to wear away, for John to grow tired of Sherlock’s antics and leave. However, as of yet, John hadn’t.  


  
“Sherlock, are you ready?” John knocked loudly on the door and Sherlock jumped from where he had evidently sat on his bed, thinking. To his dismay, he became suddenly dizzy when he stood and had to put a hand on the wall momentarily to steady himself. He frowned and refused to deduce, pure stubbornness in this instance. He refused to put the symptoms together: disorientation in thinking, dizziness, sudden appetite (though, this was a rare symptom unique to Sherlock himself).  


  
“Yes,” he called back, his voice gruff, to his abysmal surprise.  


  
“Are…are you alright?” John questioned and Sherlock stepped from the wall and yanked open the door, tucking the back of his shirttail into his trousers.  


  
“Yes, yes, John,” Sherlock said, retrieving his coat from his bed and roughly pushing past him. “I’m quite alright. Let’s go eat.”  


  
He pulled his coat on, retrieving his scarf from the peg by the door and hardly waiting for John to join him on the sidewalk before hailing a cab. He stumbled on one of the steps and gritted his teeth—John either hadn’t noticed or didn’t mention it. Sherlock slid in, gave the address to the restaurant and sat back. He forced himself to not think of what was wrong with him. He forced himself to think of something else and immediately his mind drifted to his flatmate. Almost all free thoughts of late, he mused, had been flickering to John. It was not normal for Sherlock to think of another so often; he found it strangely pleasing yet unsettling.  


  
“Where are we going?” John asked once he had settled. Sherlock leaned against his window, as far as he possibly could be from John in such a tight space. He pressed the side of his face against the window and found the cold glass felt marvelous against his hot face. He frowned down at the red jumper John had chosen for the day’s unraveling. He found himself not nearly as bothered by it as he usually would be. He hated jumpers, thought they were tacky and unnecessarily warm. They were not the least bit form fitting, nor did they have any true reason for being since they were, as aforementioned, unnecessarily warm. A shirt and a jacket had the same warmth as a jumper and looked infinitely better. Yet, John made it look…what was the word Sherlock was searching for? His brow furrowed as the word he delved for evaded him further…it was on the tip of his tongue…  


  
“Lovely!” he said, triumphantly and then fell silent as he realized what was lovely. There he went again, thinking John was lovely. Lovely was such a…sentimental adjective and it perplexed Sherlock that it kept popping into his mind.  


  
“Lovely?” John questioned and Sherlock remembered that he was not alone.  


  
He frowned at John and was quick to cover his outburst. “Where we’re going, it’s lovely. Mycroft is quite fond of it…I wonder if that means it has cake.”  
John cracked a grin and allowed himself a small chuckle at Mycroft’s expense. No doubt, Sherlock’s older brother had somehow heard that and was now planning a raid of their apartment, or some other meddlesome little annoyance. However, Holmes the Young could not quite muster himself to care, for John’s chuckle was worth anything Mycroft could throw at him. Sherlock allowed himself to smile at his best friend for a moment before he turned his attention out the cab window and they rode the rest of the short drive in a comfortable, familiar silence.  


***

John sat at the small table with Sherlock, watching the detective study the menu with a wholehearted hunger. John didn’t quite know what to make of Sherlock’s new found appetite but whether he internally questioned Sherlock or not, he could not bear to vocalize his doubt for fear of deterring Sherlock of the first true meal he’d probably had in weeks. His eyes shifted down to Sherlock’s shirt for the umpteenth time since he had noticed it in the absence of Sherlock’s coat. It was a purple that made Sherlock’s skin seem marvelously paler, his eyes gorgeously greener, and his hair very much darker. Not to mention it was tight enough to stretch over Sherlock’s shoulders, muscles, chest…the buttons strained to hold the two sides of the garment together. He blinked and forced his gaze down to his own menu, even though he had already decided what he wanted.  


  
He smiled to himself at the slightly torturous joke behind that thought, a silent 'and it’s not on the menu' in reference to what he wanted, but he banished the whole idea. He couldn’t keep thinking these things—it wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t right. He couldn’t jeopardize their whole friendship. Whatever he felt was not reciprocated, and he knew any advancement on that particular front would be hazardous to the way of life he had began to thoroughly enjoy with Sherlock. He couldn’t risk that, especially since he had just gotten him back.  


  
He stifled a sigh, knowing Sherlock would hear it and direct his genius deductions on John, a gaze he didn’t know he would be able to displace this time. He knew that he had certain tells that Sherlock undoubtedly had honed in on in their time together, but he would be damned if he made it too easy for the smart bastard.  


  
“Hey there,” the waitress greeted and John looked up at the obviously American southern accent. She gave him a wide, too friendly smile. “Morning; what can I get you?”  


  
He and Sherlock ordered politely, and he felt a little proud of Sherlock for doing so without any of his usual antics.  


  
“What do you think, Texas?” he asked, knowing Sherlock would know.  


  
“Texas,” Sherlock confirmed. “She’s studying here for a semester.”  


  
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” Sherlock asked and John realized his eyes had drifted down to Sherlock's shirt once more. His forced his glance guiltily up to meet Sherlock's, but he was relieved to see a smile gracing his flatmate’s features.  


  
“It’s just…” John started and then shook his head.  


  
“No, do go on, John,” Sherlock prompted and John sighed heavily, taking a sip of his coffee.  


  
“It’s just really damn tight, is all,” John said, aiming for casual and essentially achieving the nonchalance. Sherlock leaned forward, clasping his hands together and leaning his forearms against the table, effectively straining the shirt to the point where John expected buttons to pop at any moment, allowing a nice, smooth view of Sherlock’s bare chest.  


  
“Is that a problem?” Sherlock asked, softly, his voice a little rough. John didn’t recognize his tone and the doctor within him faintly wondered if he was catching cold, but the man within him quickly displayed a coy smile.  


  
“I didn’t say that,” John replied smoothly, to his great relief, taking another sip of his coffee. Sherlock leaned back once again, a small smile playing across his lightly pink lips.  


  
Had he and Sherlock just flirted? John’s heart raced and he hoped that his face was nicely blank as he glanced around the small restaurant. Was Sherlock able to flirt? Well, of course—he could manipulate practically any woman or man he wanted, and he regularly displayed this using Molly. Was Sherlock manipulating him now? For what reason? What did he hope to accomplish? Then John froze—if he was manipulating John, that meant he was utterly aware to the fact that John could be manipulated by him in such an intimate way. He took in a shuddering breath as the force of this idea hit him; Sherlock knew he was smitten? Why else would he be trying to manipulate him?  


  
“John?” Sherlock’s deep baritone shook John back to reality. He realized that he had frozen as he was about to take a sip of water, the glass hovering a few inches from his mouth. “John, what is it?”  


  
John met Sherlock’s curious gaze ruefully but did not see any hint of an answer in their green ocean. He frowned to himself, realizing how his entire idea of Sherlock’s discovery was based on Sherlock’s current manipulation—which may not have even been there. For all John knew, he was simply hungry for once. It was unfair and immoral of John to simply assume that Sherlock was trying to manipulate him, and he began chastising himself silently. To Sherlock, he muttered,  


  
“Nothing, nothing.”  


  
Sherlock opened his mouth to pursue the matter further, but, luckily for John, their waitress appeared with their plates. He smiled up at her gratefully, noticing for the first time that she was cute. She seemed a little young, probably in her early twenties. Her hair was long, bright blonde, and held back in a ponytail. Her eyes were big and brown, and her smile quick and just as bright as her hair. Her nametag, placed scandalously low on her already low v-neck t-shirt, read Cathy.  


  
“Here’s your breakfast, boys,” she said. “Can I refill your coffee, sir?”  


  
He nodded. “Yes, please.”  


  
She scurried away to retrieve the coffee pot, the opposite direction, making it easy for John to watch her go without craning his head. Her jeans were very tight and her rear very—  


  
A sharp noise from the man across from him forced him to avert his eyes from the retreating waitress and focus across from himself. Sherlock frowned deeply at him, but the moment John’s eyes rested back on him, he dropped his gaze to his food.  


  
“What’s wrong?” John inquired, genuinely curious and a tad concerned.  


  
Sherlock simply shook his head and began eating, his mouth continuously too full to carry on John’s curiosity. John gave up when the waitress reappeared with the coffee pot, filling the mug to the brim.  


  
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she asked kindly, her smile sincere. John opened his mouth but Sherlock beat him to it.  


  
“No, we’re fine,” his voice was curt and acidic. John glanced at him and was surprised by the unadulterated malice behind his eyes, more evident even for Sherlock. It had the desired effect on the waitress: her eyes widened, she looked between the two of them, nodded quickly, and scuttled off.  


  
“That was terribly rude, Sherlock,” John admonished, frowning at him. “She was being kind.”  


  
“She was flirting, and it was painful to watch,” Sherlock replied instantly. His eyes widened just barely at his statement and he quickly followed it, “In addition, her stupidity was beyond intolerable. I was afraid of my IQ dropping simply by being in her presence.”  


  
John’s frown deepened. “How do you know she was unintelligent?”  


  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his sigh drawn out and terribly exaggerated. “She’s been studying nonstop, judging by the circles under her eyes and the ink stains on her fingers, so at least she gets points for trying. However, the distress evident in her posture means that she simply does not understand the material and has been doubling her studying hours. Moreover, she has a textbook open at the hostess station and has called over the other waiter twelve times to ask him questions for the one page she’s read since we’ve been here. There’s only about four paragraphs on the page, and she’s asking an equally or less educated person, suggesting that she is desperate for any and all help she can get. I’m guessing she is taking a maximum of three classes, and is failing at least two of them. I think the third class is photography.”  


  
Even though the deductions were cruel and horribly unnecessary, John couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows, silently impressed. The sides of Sherlock’s mouth gave a twitch of recognition, acknowledging John’s silent praise, but the smile was killed by John’s next words.  


  
“You could stand to lose a few IQ points,” the words weren’t particularly biting, nor did John put any amount of actual distaste into them, but Sherlock frowned deeply nonetheless. John was about to apologize when he realized he hadn’t taken a bite of his food; he chose the sustenance over stroking Sherlock’s hardly injured pride. He cringed a little at the taste of the metal fork but was surprised at how delicious the crepe was.  


  
It was silent between them for a few minutes before Sherlock evidently forgave John and began to talk with him again. They didn’t talk of anything of true importance, but there was something peaceful in simply conversing with Sherlock, John thought. It was further evidence of Sherlock’s deeply hidden humanity; it reminded John that Sherlock allowed himself simple normality with John from time to time, a reprieve that John was sure Sherlock was grateful for as well.  


  
Finally, they were both done with their meals and John hailed their waitress, who peeled her eyes away from her textbook long enough to look disdainfully in their direction, pasting a fake smile quickly across her features, nothing even close to the kind smile she had offered before. She placed the check on the table without a word; Sherlock placed the bills there, standing immediately.  


  
They walked out of the restaurant and Sherlock had hailed a cab when John realized how little chance there was that Sherlock had left a tip. He cursed under his breath, getting Sherlock’s attention.  


  
“Hold the cab, I have to tip her,” John told him, Sherlock immediately opening his mouth in protest. John simply held up a hand and went back inside. The girl looked surprised and a little frightened when he walked back in.  


  
“We forgot your tip,” John said, pulling a few extra bills from his wallet and handing them to her. “And I apologize, for my—“  


  
She shook her head, interrupting. “It’s perfectly alright. I was flirting and you’re taken; I know how boyfriend’s can get jealous.”  


  
John frowned at her. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he informed, though why, he did not know. Probably out of habit—however, if John was being honest with himself, he felt a little flutter in his chest every time someone jumped to that particular conclusion. The girl smiled slightly.  


  
“Oh, sorry,” she allowed. “Husband?”  


  
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re not together, not romantically.”  


  
The girl frowned. “Well, you should be,” she said and then her eyes flicked past John, growing wider. John turned to see Sherlock standing there, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He approached slowly, as if not to further frighten the poor girl.  


  
“I apologize for my rudeness,” he murmured and doubt flickered across her face before it was replaced with relief.  


  
“No worries,” she said, John and Sherlock both turning to go. “Y’all come back now, you hear?”  


  
John focused on Sherlock as they left again. He had apologized, to a stranger. That was very unlike Sherlock—he didn’t care if he left burned bridges in his wake, it was all inconsequential in the long run. However, he had taken the time to come back into the restaurant, probably to retrieve John, and taken the opportunity to apologize: it was a monumental step that John immediately felt weary of.  


  
They got into the cab that was still waiting kerbside; when they had settled and Sherlock had instructed the cabbie back to Baker Street, he turned to John, his face precisely, purposefully blank, only furthering John’s suspicion.  


  
“So, what was all that about?” he asked slowly, and John narrowed his eyes at the genius.  


  
“I was simply paying her and apologizing for your anger, apparently unnecessary,” John said, weighing his answer heavily. What exactly had Sherlock heard? And why was he acting strange? Even if he had heard all of their conversation, it wasn’t exactly the first time random civilians had made assumptions about the two of them. What was different about this time? He could only think of her jump to betrothal, and even that wasn’t too absurd. Instead of offering an explanation to his odd behavior, not that John really expected one, Sherlock simply allowed John a small peak at his emotion through a warm smile. John reciprocated it in due time, as he let the last remaining doubts of Sherlock slip away. He trusted his flatmate, with his own life. Whatever the point to his strange behavior, Sherlock would eventually clue John in and John would be no worse for wear. So he hoped.  


  
They stomped up the stairs to their front door and Sherlock had barely stepped across the threshold when he was hit with a fit of coughing. John rushed in behind him, immediately retrieving a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water, returning to a still hacking Sherlock. John waited patiently for the fit to be over before offering him the beverage. Sherlock’s eyes were a painting of distaste and anger.  


  
“Got something caught in your throat?” John asked and Sherlock slowly shook his head, his eyes darkening as he did so. John immediately jumped to the next logical conclusion and directed Sherlock to the couch, retrieving his check-up kit from his room. He peered down Sherlock’s throat with a light and checked his temperature. He knew Sherlock had experienced a headache the day before, often a precursor.  


  
“Sherlock, I think you have ‘flu,” he informed. Sherlock glared at John as if he had been the reason for the sickness.  


  
“I had suspected that when I felt hungry, but I always hope against hopes that I’m wrong,” Sherlock murmured angrily.  


  
“That’s a sentence I’d thought I’d never hear you say,” John rolled his eyes and ignored the misdirected anger. “Answer me honestly: does your throat feel sore or itchy? Are your muscles stiff or aching? Do you still have a headache?”  


  
Sherlock continued to glare but finally relented and answered John. “My throat feels worse now that I’ve coughed, my back feels a little stiff, and the headache is still present.”  


  
John looked at Sherlock pityingly. “Well, Sherlock. You have ‘flu. At this point, a vaccination will do no good; we can give you tea, and you need to sleep, but other than that, the virus is already in your system and you’ll just have to ride it out. Hopefully, you’ll just feel a bit nauseous tomorrow, and that’ll be the extent of it—however, due to your horrible eating habits, your lack of sleep, and the exertion you put your body through on a daily basis, I doubt that will be the case.”  


  
Sherlock dropped his head to his chest. “How long?”  


  
“A professional estimation? I’d say, two to three days at the least, not including recovery days,” John told him and Sherlock groaned. “At the most, a week of bed rest and a few additional days for full recovery.”  


  
Sherlock’s groan grew in volume and frustration, finally ending in short. “Well, shite.”


	2. Chapter 2

The moment Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, he was acutely aware of the wave nausea threatening its escape; he stood immediately, worsening the condition, and dashed from his room to the bathroom, thankfully a short distance. Vomiting was a particularly nasty activity that Sherlock hated above all else. He moaned loudly, hating how he had to hold himself over the toilet, disgusted in his body’s weakness. 

He was so distracted by self-pity and the act of retching that he jumped when a hand began stroking his back. He glanced quickly to the side to see John, his dressing gown slumped crookedly on his shoulders over ratty night clothes. Sherlock groaned but was strangely comforted. He had always associated sickness with a lone fight waged against the unseen; however, it seemed John wasn’t simply going to sit back and watch Sherlock suffer. 

After a few minutes of dry heaving, Sherlock’s stomach finally behaved and sat still. He groaned and leaned against the wall opposite the toilet; John squatted next to him, hand on his shoulder. 

“Better?” he asked and Sherlock shook his head. His head still pounded and despite the lack of contents of his stomach, it still felt abnormally full, though it was no longer doing flip flops. John frowned at his response, patting his shoulder gingerly. A hesitant hand flitted to Sherlock’s forehead and then away. 

“Stay here for a moment,” John instructed and Sherlock closed his eyes, perfectly content to sleep on the floor of their bathroom, if it weren’t so chilly. Shivers ran up his spine and he trembled against the cold tile and smooth plaster. Soon enough, though, gentle hands rested on either shoulder and Sherlock peeled his eyes open to see John again, eyes wide with kind concern. 

“Sherlock, I’m going to give you some medicine to bring down your fever,” he said. “We’ll try tablets first with some water, but if you can’t keep it down, we can attempt intravenous methods.”

Sherlock didn’t nod, rather hoping John would simply understand his reluctance to move or try to put anything back into his stomach, but John pushed a tall glass of water into his hand. He guided the glass to his mouth, pulling Sherlock towards the toilet slightly. 

“Swish and spit,” John instructed and Sherlock did so, hating the feeling on his tongue. He gagged on the water, spitting after the quick swish. John held clasped fingers out to Sherlock, indicating the pills. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. John sighed and then opened Sherlock’s mouth manually, placing the two pills on his tongue; the salty taste of John excited Sherlock’s brain and heart a little but repelled his stomach. He sprung forward in aims of the toilet, but John held him back, lifting the glass that Sherlock held to his mouth once more. Sherlock groaned but finally took a small sip in his mouth, swallowing the pills. His stomach rebelled at the addition, and Sherlock leaned forward, John relenting this time, and dry heaved over the toilet for a moment before he sat back, nothing dispelled. John let out a small, relieved sigh and Sherlock closed his eyes. 

“Sherlock, you can’t sleep on the bathroom floor,” John said softly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s fuzzy curls. The touch was kind and he didn’t mean to flinch away, but Sherlock did—wholly based on the fact that it was unusual and he had a headache. He peeled his eyes open to see the hurt flash across John’s face before it was replaced quickly by a deeper concern. Without any physical prompting this time, John murmured,

“Your bed will be warmer, Sherlock,” John stood and only when Sherlock didn’t move did John offer his hand. Sherlock took it and stumbled, John at his side, hand in his hand, back into his bedroom. He collapsed on the bed, rolling into the fetal position and hating that each shiver shook his head, only increasing his headache. Why wasn’t the damn medicine kicking in yet?

John pulled covers up to his chin and assured him, as if reading Sherlock’s mind, “The aspirin will kick in within ten minutes, but just try to relax.”

Sherlock turned enough to shoot John a glare—relax? In this much discomfort? Impossible. John only looked encouraged by the anger. “I’m on the couch,” John informed Sherlock. “If you need anything, give me a shout.”

Sherlock was confused for a moment; not by John’s comment about him sleeping on the couch, though that did require some thought at a later time. No, rather, the thick comforter that kept the shivers at bay was not Sherlock’s, it had been evident John had no clue where Sherlock’s was by the previous day’s use of a coat as a blanket. Sherlock thought back and remembered hazily John helping him into bed again that same evening, though he had been asleep before his head even hit the pillow. Sherlock inhaled deeply and realized that it was John’s quilt, smelling of John, a lovely mask that allowed the tension in Sherlock’s body to slowly diffuse. Before he knew it, he was lulled back to sleep. 

***

John didn’t so much as wake up, per se, as simply come to. It wasn’t with a jolt, either, but rather with a quiet sigh. He stood, shoving off the couch with an angry stab of pain through his shoulder that he thoroughly ignored. His visit to Sherlock’s room was clumsy but, thankfully, quiet. Sherlock was wrapped in John’s comforter, the thing pulled all the way up to his nose. John leaned over and gingerly placed a gentle palm across Sherlock’s forehead, John’s brow creasing instantly. John left quickly, retrieving his thermometer, and reappeared just as quickly and silently. He pulled back the comforter slowly, as not to disrupt Sherlock’s rest; he had noticed last night that Sherlock wasn’t wearing a shirt—he had apparently peeled it off sometime in the night before running into the bathroom to vomit. This made inserting the thermometer under Sherlock’s arm much easier. It didn’t take too long for the instrument to beep its diagnostic. He grimaced as it told him what he had expected: Sherlock was over 40oC. Not good. 

John stared down at Sherlock, not quite knowing what to do. He didn’t want to wake Sherlock to attempt more oral treatment. Glancing at his watch, he noticed that it had only been about three hours since Sherlock had run to the bathroom. He was burning through the aspirin too quickly. He could intravenous measures; however, John wasn’t quite sure what sort of medication he should give Sherlock, as a recovering addict. As a doctor, he was aware that most any stronger medication introduced intravenously was a risk hazard—however, each recovery was different and he doubted very thoroughly that anything he gave Sherlock would lead to a downward spiral, if only because there was a very small chance of Sherlock being conscious and coherent enough to know. He began to pace when he heard a low murmur come from his patient. 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was small and as John leaned over Sherlock’s still body to hear him better, he couldn’t help but notice the heat rolling off of him, yet the shivers that ran up and down Sherlock’s body. 

“I’m right here, Sherlock,” he told the man. “What do you need?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment and John thought that he had simply fallen back asleep when he spoke again.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said softly. “I just wanted to know you were there.”

Sentiment. John was hit with the monumentally small yet vast feeling Sherlock had displayed like a wave, refreshing him like nothing else could have. John gently patted Sherlock’s hip, smiling slightly. Sherlock was accepting his help; good, because he sure as bloody hell needed it. 

“I am, Sherlock,” he told the other man. “I promise.”

A half-contended, half-uncomfortable sigh escaped Sherlock and John patted his hip again. 

“I’m going to need you to take a few more pills, though, Sherlock,” he said gently. “Just two more and you can go back to sleep.”

Might as well take advantage of Sherlock’s consciousness; he could figure out an alternate medication method after he had coerced Sherlock back into a fever-riddled slumber. Sherlock groaned softly, weakly, but nodded his head slightly, turning onto his stomach and slowly pushing himself into a half sitting position. His black cotton pajama bottoms had been pulled slightly down by the movement and sat dangerously low on his hips, seemingly emphasizing the subtle v shape of his pelvis bones; a small shadow at the very edge of the cloth hinted at dark curls underneath the hindering trousers—

John pulled the blanket over Sherlock once more, the doctor within him chiding incessantly. Sherlock was his patient right then, not to be thought of in the most unprofessional ways. He was to be treated, and once his sickness gone, then John could go back to suppressing fantasies and feelings that he knew his emotionally unavailable flatmate would never requite. John hurried from the room, dismissing lingering thoughts of what was beneath Sherlock’s clothing, dashing up the stairs to his own chamber, and rifling through his own stash of medication. John knew that if Sherlock wanted the drugs that John had in his room, simply keeping them out of the medicine cabinet in their bathroom would fall short of effective, but having them in his private quarters made him feel better all the same. He found a higher dosage of over-the-counter aspirin and shook two from the container, rushing back down to Sherlock, only pausing to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen. 

Sherlock was still sitting up, but he was staring at his hands, his blinks slow and distanced. He was also mumbling to himself, something that didn’t entirely worry John since it wasn’t completely abnormal; however, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice John come in or didn’t entirely care because he continued the low muttering, just barely loud enough for John to make out. 

“John is here,” Sherlock muttered, seemingly reassuring himself. “Not alone, not with John here. Not alone, John is here…”

John was hit with another wave of emotion at Sherlock’s hidden sentiment, this one he was sure he was meant to hear. Sherlock truly felt comforted by John’s presence and that grounded John entirely. No more inappropriate thoughts about Sherlock, John vowed to himself. Sherlock needed a friend, nothing more and nothing less. A doctor and a friend; lucky for Sherlock, he had both in John. 

“Sherlock,” he said lowly, and Sherlock jumped, reinforcing John’s intuitive assumption that he hadn’t been meant to hear Sherlock’s chant. Sherlock turned slightly, the usual bright, horribly intelligent and beautiful gleam in his eyes terribly dulled by the fever. 

“John?” his question was fuzzy with doubt and John’s brow creased in deeper consternation. “Medicine?”

“Yes, I’m here,” John assured. “And I’ve got medicine that will hopefully lower your fever. You’ll feel better after that.”

Sherlock nodded, aware of the implications of medication, holding out a trembling hand expectantly. John began to place the pills in his palm when a particularly nasty shiver of Sherlock’s nearly knocked the medication from John’s fingertips. John scowled and Sherlock dropped his hand, opening his mouth instead. John blinked but adjusted accordingly within an instant. He sat on the bed and, careful not to touch Sherlock’s tongue, placed both pills on his moist tongue; he concentrated hard on then raising the glass to Sherlock’s lips and tilting it slightly, allowing a small amount of water to wash the pills down Sherlock’s throat. Stay professional, he reminded himself. Sherlock was a patient, not a lover; stay professional. 

“Sherlock,” John began as the detective began his slow slide back under the cover of the thick comforter. “Whenever you wake, I’m going to need you to take a few sips of water, okay? We need to keep you hydrated.”

Sherlock seemingly didn’t hear him, or chose not to acknowledge it. John sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock, let’s start now,” he instructed. “Just take two more small sips of the water and then you can sleep.”

Sherlock peeled an eye open hesitantly as John held the water out to him again. Sherlock clamped his mouth shut but with a little hopeful nudging from John, he finally opened it slightly to allow John to help him drink. Finally, John nodded and Sherlock slid the rest of the way down on the pillow. He nestled his head into the comforter and made a comforting sound. John took that as his cue to leave; he began to rise from the bed but Sherlock’s hand grabbed his wrist with impressive speed. 

“Don’t go,” Sherlock pleaded, sounding so small, not at all the confident, gorgeous man John was used to hearing. It broke his heart to hear such a great man reduced to such weakness, but simultaneously, it reminded him that Sherlock was, despite popular belief, human. 

“Okay, Sherlock,” John spoke softly, putting his hand on top of Sherlock’s for a moment before gently removing it from his wrist. He sat fully on the bed once more and Sherlock rolled onto his side, curling in on himself slightly, so that he formed a sort of half circle around John. “I’ll stay.”

John stayed until Sherlock was peacefully snoring, then he slowly leaned his head against the detective’s, careful to keep the touch light, and allowed himself one moment of peace and admiration before he stood from the bed and headed back to the couch.

***

Sherlock’s entire being ached as he woke again, but the only thing he was truly painfully aware of was the absence of the second weight on the bed. He had curled himself around John’s profoundly stable warmth—a warmth that was no longer present. This sent panic through his scrambled brain and he let out a disgruntled, hurt moan. Instantly, as if he had a sixth sense for Sherlock’s discomfort, John appeared at the door, scraping a palm across his eyes quickly before focusing his full attention on the sickened genius.   
“Sherlock, water,” John reminded gently and Sherlock frowned for a moment before recalling John’s wish for hydration. He slowly reached over to his bedside table and put the glass to his mouth, swallowing two mouthfuls slowly. The water refreshed his senses well enough, though he was not sure that was a good thing: it simply made him more aware of all the many ways in which his body was failing him. If it couldn’t fend off one silly virus, what good was it, anyhow?

John must’ve misread the slightly angered expression on Sherlock’s face to be pain, because he quickly sat on the bed, lifting a hand to Sherlock’s forehead shyly. Sherlock still felt chilly, though less so. John’s brow decreased in its worry slightly as he felt behind him on the bedside table for the thermometer, desiring to check his own readings with the instrument. Sherlock obeyed silently, lifting his arm and sitting quietly, studying the doctor before him. He had been sleeping on the couch but had, thankfully, changed into sleeping attire. Though, it hadn’t been restful sleep; dark circles were already forming under his eyes, his exhaustion probably not lessened by his caring for Sherlock immediately upon awakening. 

The device beeped, and John looked at it, worry still plain on his face, but lessened, if only fractionally. Sherlock turned the thermometer so he could also see the reading: 39.1. 

“Closer to 38; that’s good. It means it’s going down. That’s good. I’m going to run and get a few more pills, see if we can lower that 39 back to a 36,” John said, and by the sounds of footsteps on stairs, it sounded as if he were truly running to get the pills. 

A stab of remorse shot through Sherlock, a feeling so thoroughly unlike him that he was startled into a frown. He was not usually one to feel guilty, especially when being cared for. However, it had been a long time since being appropriately cared for, by any stretch of the word. Even when in the rehabilitation facility, he had not had the utterly sincere attentions that John was offering. Mummy used to coddle him, that is until he saw how foolish the act of babying was; she was not preparing him for the world, merely soothing its burn. It had been a long while since someone had taken the time out of their lives to pay any close attention to the detective they all secretly loved to use. And now John was doing it so willingly, so hopelessly good that he would never stop to think about his own health until Sherlock’s was sorted out. Hence Sherlock’s remorse; he partially convinced himself it was selfish will that he needed John to sleep, for if they both got sick, than they were both screwed. However, though it intimidated him slightly, it seemed to him that his emotion was the main motivator—it simply hurt him to see John so exhausted. Sure, having John come down at four in the morning to tell him to stop banging around in the kitchen, or to keep him out chasing potential suspects into the darkest hours of the night was one thing; but this—this was different. 

John reappeared then and held out the pills to Sherlock; Sherlock took them in his palm this time, depositing them in his own mouth and drank a few more sips of water. John seemed contented by his control, taking it to be a good sign. He nodded, his eyes slipping closed a fraction more. 

“Go back to sleep now, Sherlock,” John suggested and Sherlock was surprised he was still tired. He hadn’t slept this much in as long as he could care to remember. Once, he had put himself in an induced coma for a case; perhaps that had a one-up on this, but he wasn’t sure if that was the same as sleeping. John stood, and Sherlock opened his eyes, again, not quite aware that he had closed them. 

“You also need to sleep,” Sherlock croaked out, seemingly surprising John, who seemed immediately worried by the deterioration of his voice. 

“I’ve been sleeping,” John said. “I’m fine; it’s you we’re worrying about.”

“You’ve been on the couch,” Sherlock continued, his voice feeble and infuriatingly quiet. “You need to sleep in a bed; we can’t both get sick.”

“I can’t sleep in my bed,” John told Sherlock slowly, as if to push the matter softly. “It’s too far away; I’d never hear you if you needed me.”

Sherlock slowly closed his eyes, hoping he was making his next statement, and its implication, easier on both of them.

“This is a relatively big bed.”

John was silent for a moment and Sherlock’s curiosity, albeit slightly hindered by the sickness, made it too hard to keep his eyes closed. He glanced at John and saw the indecision plain on his face. Finally, John sighed, exhaustion and doctorial determination weighing over the social implications. He nodded and walked around to the other side of the bed, pulling down the comforter and slipping in next to Sherlock, though far enough away to not actually touch. 

“Now people will certainly talk,” John murmured, already falling asleep. Luckily, Sherlock was too, though he did manage to reply, slurring,

“Let them.”

Sherlock woke first and was pleasantly surprised to find that John had rolled over in his sleep and curled up next to Sherlock, an arm thrown protectively over Sherlock’s waist, bare skin against bare skin. Sherlock would have enjoyed it all the more if his head wasn’t spinning, his stomach wasn’t roiling, his joints didn’t ache, his vision wasn’t blurry, and his thoughts weren’t extraordinarily muddled. Through the fog of the still present headache (though, luckily, less intense), he barely noticed the stress written across the slumbering John’s face. His eyes flicked angrily beneath his lids and his mouth and eyebrows were pulled sharply down. Sherlock blinked hazily and was unsure of what to do. John opened his mouth a bit and let out an agonized moan, his arm jerking tighter around Sherlock for just a moment before relaxing. It was clear that John was having a nightmare but Sherlock didn’t know whether or not John would appreciate being woken from it. It took Sherlock an uncommonly long amount of time to decide and he blamed his sluggish thoughts on the fever that made him shiver. His back moaned and groaned in protest as he slowly sat up, sliding under John’s arm until it rested at the base of his thighs. He was just reaching over to gently prod John’s shoulder when John jerked, let out a louder moan, his eyes popping open, wide and awake with panic. He flipped over and sat up with surprising agility, his eyes raking the room with panicked confusion. Sherlock reached out a hand to touch John’s shoulder, an offering of silent comfort, but John was still panicked enough to take it as a threat. He took the hand and began to twist when his eyes fell on the Sherlock’s face, pained but patient. Sherlock understood night terrors; he had experienced them when he was young, his brain riddled with all the information that he had not been able to block out like the rest of the kids. However, he didn’t understand PTSD night terrors on the same level. They were experience induced, rather than imagination induced and Sherlock found himself deeply sympathizing with the panic clear in his blogger’s gorgeously blue eyes. 

John stopped twisting Sherlock’s hand before he even started and simply sat there holding it for a moment, staring at the detective with slowly comprehending eyes. Eyes Sherlock had just described as…gorgeous? Had that been his thought? Sherlock’s eyebrows creased as he tried to recall, thoroughly disgruntled by the lack of memory. However, his train of thought was utterly derailed as John slowly placed Sherlock’s hand on his cold cheek, closing his eyes and turning his face just slightly so the inside of Sherlock’s wrist was at John’s nose. Sherlock wasn’t completely sure, though he would have been, had his mental capabilities not been hindered, but it seemed as though John and breathed in—sniffed Sherlock’s wrist, briefly before dropping his hand and placing his palm on Sherlock’s forehead, similar in its briefness. John jumped from the bed and headed out of the room without a word and Sherlock was left confused. He hated, hated that he was confused by the simplest of things; however, he had noticed that as John was leaving the room, he was walking strange, just noticeably. His psychosomatic limp was back; Sherlock noticed it would reappear in the mornings four to five times a week for about fifteen minutes, just following John’s waking up. This was how he knew when John had experienced a nightmare that night. It was fairly interesting, the correlation between John’s injury, his limp, and his night terrors. 

A snap in front of Sherlock’s face brought him back to the present and John’s worried face stared at him, his blue eyes so thoroughly bright and worried. His eyes were very pretty, Sherlock noticed, then blinked. Pretty. He had to hold on to that thought; it was similar to the other, he was sure. John’s pretty eyes. John’s pretty eyes. 

“Sherlock, I need you to stay with me for just a moment,” John instructed, bringing him back once more. Sherlock liked the sound of John’s voice, so solid and caring. It allowed him to focus, it cleared his head for just a moment. It was refreshing. 

“Okay,” he croaked, nodding. John held out two more pills to Sherlock and he blinked at them before holding out his hands, slowly noticing the extreme shaking of them. “Why are the tremors back?”

Sherlock’s voice didn’t sound right, even to himself. It sounded too soft, too much like a toad’s croak than his natural baritone. John didn’t seem to mind, though, so Sherlock put it out of his head. 

“Your fever is fluctuating,” John explained and Sherlock focused in on his face and his words, loving the brief clarity. “Perfectly normal, your body is simply fighting off the virus. However, intense shivers are often conducive to fevers—the worse the fever, the more you shake.”

Sherlock nodded. He had known that. Why had he asked? On a completely different thought, why had John stopped talking? Instead, he was moving his hand towards Sherlock’s face and, belatedly, Sherlock realized he wanted to put the pills in his mouth. He opened it obediently and waited for the water that John held in a glass. It was a familiar process and he found himself comforted by John’s ministrations. He usually hated being doted on, but John was different. John was different in every aspect to Sherlock. John was better, worth the human vices. Sherlock smiled, though he believed it to have looked rather strained and much more like a grimace. John stood and left again, and Sherlock sat in confusion once more, though briefly. John came back in and chuckled, confusing Sherlock further, until he realized he must have been pouting. However, he couldn’t bring himself to care that much, though he felt his face relax once John sat on the bed once more, a cold compress in one hand. 

“We’re going to start an external regime now,” he informed Sherlock, and Sherlock gave him a slow blink, understanding the words but not the meaning, which frustrated him. John simply continued. “I was hoping the fever would sweat itself out; however, it seems pretty consistent. We’re going to try to lower it from both ends now, starting with a cold compress. I also want you to try and sip on this ice water as much as you can. Maybe later, if you’re feeling strong enough, we can try a cold shower.”

Sherlock blinked at him, really only hearing the part about the shower. Would John expect him to handle it on his own? Because he was simply sitting there and he felt exhausted. No, if John was hell bent on a shower, he was going to have to assist. Sherlock’s fever scrambled brain managed a mental picture involving a shower and the two of them and John looked confused by Sherlock’s sudden exhausted grin. John didn’t spend too much time trying to figure it out; instead, he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, gently and lightly. 

“Sherlock, lay down, again,” John instructed and Sherlock slowly slid back down under the covers, his back protesting, his knees groaning, and his neck aching. He was going to roll onto his side so he was facing John, but John stopped him. 

“Stay on your back,” John commanded, placing the cold compress on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock flinched away at the drastic temperature change, but the relief was small and appreciated. John stood and Sherlock eyed him. 

“Stay?” Sherlock mumbled, aiming to make it sound like a command instead of a request. John nodded, walking to the other side of the bed and sitting against the headboard, noticeably closer to Sherlock than he had purposefully distanced the previous night. “Talk to me,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes. “It helps.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed so he didn’t see John’s reaction, but he could hear the small smile in his voice when he replied. 

“Talk about what?” John asked, his voice soft, obviously promoting sleep, which Sherlock planned on getting—however, in a moment. 

“Tell me about your nightmare,” Sherlock said slowly and roughly; it was silent for a moment until John said slowly,

“I…I don’t want to…discuss this,” John murmured and Sherlock opened his eyes quickly to see John had dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his eyes slowly. Dispelling tears? Perhaps: the dreams were very emotional, clearly. 

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded. “I just…want to understand.”

He closed his eyes again so he didn’t see John’s frown, expecting him to leave abruptly, leaving Sherlock to his plagued thoughts. 

“Okay,” John finally replied, earning a small smile from Sherlock. “It was of Afghanistan, I’m sure you’ve deduced. I was on a patrol with my team…we were just walking on the dunes. I’m not even sure if it was a real memory; the next part wasn’t real…I know that. I do; but it seemed real. So, so real.”

John paused and Sherlock found himself lost in the words, astounded by the depth of the tone, the way his chest constricted at the thought of the panic John must have felt. He wasn’t one for sentiment…but he wished then, for the first true time in his life since he was a young boy, to reach over and offer physical sympathy—a hug…a kiss…anything to drain the pain from John’s voice. John continued and Sherlock listened intently, his head cleared slightly by the steady and pained voice of the man next to him. 

“All of a sudden, we were being shot at, bullets coming from all directions,” John paused again, taking a deep breath. “I know that they say you can’t feel real pain in dreams…well, when I was shot, I didn’t—but I did as I watched each and every one of my men being riddled with holes…and I couldn’t move; I couldn’t help them, I couldn’t save them. I was finally able to stumble to one and I turned them over and—“

To Sherlock’s exhausted surprise, John’s voice broke. He tried to pry his eyes open but, to his great frustration and anger, he couldn’t. They were suddenly made of lead. 

“Who…” he tried but his voice was too heavily slurred as he was dragged into sleep, resenting how he sounded like a disgruntled, hurt owl. “Who…”

The next time Sherlock woke, he found that the cold compress was still on his forehead, even though he had rolled onto one side slightly; furthermore, it was still cold. John had been rewetting it and replacing it in Sherlock’s sleep. Sherlock was relieved to find that the headache was nearly gone, though that didn’t necessarily mean the fever was; his body still ached, though; he turned to grab the water from the table and found no such substance. He frowned, pulling himself into a sitting position. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, what was making him so wholly uncomfortable. 

“John…” he called lowly, not entirely certain it was loud enough to be heard outside the bedroom. However, John appeared at the door, holding a paper bag. 

“How are you feeling now? You’re fever has gone down a bit, which is good,” he told Sherlock. “I think the compress helped.”

Sherlock nodded and John walked in, going to the other side of the bed. 

“My joints, back, and neck ache,” Sherlock replied honestly, feeling a little exposed at the open acknowledgement of weakness, but less so with John than he would feel with anyone else. “I still have a headache, but it’s mostly gone.”

John nodded, pulling a bottle from the bag, blue, and placing it on the other bedside table. 

Sherlock instantly shook his head. “I don’t like blue.”

John looked up and smiled. “I know,” he replied, pulling another bottle from the bag, this one orange. “You like orange.”

John pulled a small package of crackers from the bag as well. “You need something more than water on your stomach, to fuel your body’s fighting,” John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John held up the orange liquid, explaining, “Electrolytes and salt, it’ll help your stomach and the rest of the headache. Good fuel.”

Sherlock frowned deeply. He didn’t like the idea of eating, the mere thought making his palms sweat and his stomach do a small flip in protest. John must have read the discontent in his face because he opened the pack and held out two crackers. 

“Just two, for now,” John said. “And all the drink; it’ll help, I promise.”

Sherlock frowned but took the offered drink and crackers as John sat fully on the bed, enforcing his ministrations. 

“You’re right,” Sherlock said slowly. “I do like orange.”

***

Once Sherlock had taken a few sips of the orange drink and most of both the crackers, John got an idea. 

“Here, turn so your back is towards me, if you can,” he told Sherlock and he did as he was asked, albeit slowly, finally resting, cross legged, his back to John. 

“I can’t get rid of the joint pain, but I can try to help the neck and back pain,” he said slowly, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder and feeling him tense just slightly and then relax. “I’ll start with the neck; may I?”

Sherlock held up a hand and waved him on encouragingly. John nodded, slowly working the tension from Sherlock’s neck; he could feel the detective relax into his grip slowly, allowing the tension to be eased out by the surgeon’s skilled hands. Sherlock leaned back a little and John admired the smoothness of Sherlock’s fever-hot skin. The skin was taut across muscle and vulnerability and John had to remind himself that his purpose here was only medical. He worked his way down to Sherlock’s shoulders and he heard the genius let out a sigh of contented relief that made John become alert in the most unfortunate of places. Purely medical, John, he told himself. Purely medical. 

“Where does your back hurt the most?” John asked and tried to convince himself that the husky quality of his voice was purely medical too. 

“Lower,” Sherlock admitted and John silently cursed; of course, it had to be his lower back.

“Lie on your stomach then,” John instructed, thankful his voice was normal this time. Sherlock was still slow going in his movement, but eventually, he was laid out in front of John, at the doctor’s mercy. Purely medical, John reminded himself as he took in the smooth, white plain of Sherlock’s back. He began massaging slowly at the top, working down, rubbing out knots of pressure, hoping he was helping. A tiny snore surprised John and he looked down fondly at Sherlock’s slack face, relaxed and finally clear of all tension, momentarily. He didn’t stop massaging immediately, instead slowly lessening the pressure, unwillingly to stop the physical skin-to-skin contact. It was so rare for Sherlock to allow such intimacy, though he had no qualms of invading John’s personal space when he felt it necessary. Finally, John stopped, though he did not retract his hands from the detective’s smooth skin. He sat silently, Sherlock asleep under his hands, back warm with fever; so much for professionalism. At the end of all of it, John had to admit, to himself if only, that his diligence with his flatmate was not entirely due to a sense of professional purpose. John knew and hated his feelings for Sherlock. Forever unrequited and wholly inappropriate; Sherlock made that clear that first night at Angelo’s. He didn’t want anything and John immediately stifled the spark, but it would not be snuffed. Years with the man certainly did not help, though it probably should have. Sherlock was possibly the most inconsiderate, messy, annoying bloke to live with but he was still brilliant and gorgeous…and dangerous. Even the two years apart didn’t lessen the spark—the entire time was agony, no respite, just knowing that his detective, his Sherlock was gone. 

John sighed heavily, taking his hands from Sherlock’s skin, deciding dwelling was unhealthy—he would know, he was, after all, a doctor. He slipped from the bed but paused. The sudden impulse was so quick and urgent that John had very little time to think of what he was doing. Instead, it was as if his movements were entirely not his own. His hand darted out, pushing Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead; in its absence, John leaned down and planted a firm kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. Not only was it a stolen kiss, it was a lingering one and John had to thoroughly force himself to pull away from the man he—

No. He could not continue any of these thoughts: they were self-destructive, and, as he had told himself so many times before, unrequited. Sherlock would never feel for John what John felt for Sherlock. It could not be; it was a pipe dream, nothing more. It could never be anything other than one-sided fantasies. He spun and walked from the room, hurrying to the kitchen to make himself some tea; yes, tea, the answer to all anxiety related problems. Calm the nerves, calm the mind. He took a deep breath as he waited for the kettle to boil; he had gone too far this time, indulging in pointless acts of adoration—worse, acted upon an unknowing Sherlock. He had stolen a kiss. He had gone too far; sure, Sherlock would never know, but he would and it would eat at him. He had thrown off the equilibrium; he tipped the gentle homeostasis that he had created between what he desired and reality, just slightly, but enough to throw John’s mind into disorganized chaos. One thought forever repeated underneath the turmoil of others: unrequited…?

Things changed, even for Sherlock Holmes. John blinked to himself; had Sherlock changed? John thought so, though he found himself to be a bit biased. Greg would know, Molly. Mycroft. Mycroft would certainly have noticed any nearly imperceptible things that changed in Sherlock’s behavior, his mannerisms. Perhaps he should call upon the elder Holmes…no. He dismissed the thought with a shrug; he wasn’t exactly Mycroft’s biggest fan and vice versa. There had been a little incident following Sherlock’s funeral where John was in a very dark, angry place; he had punched Mycroft very hard in the nose—so hard he had broken it. Mycroft had never quite enjoyed John’s company since then. Not to mention, crawling to Mycroft for information on Sherlock would put himself in far too vulnerable a place; no doubt Mycroft would figure out the reasoning behind John’s inquiries and then where would John be? What would Mycroft do with the information? Tell Sherlock? Surely not; however, there was always blackmail. He had refused to be a spy for Mycroft, though with this information, he may have. A firm negative on the Mycroft front. 

He headed upstairs to retrieve more medicine for Sherlock and found he was running low; only two more pills. He frowned deeply. He was entirely sure that two more pills would not help Sherlock to a full recovery of the fever; it had waned somewhat but it would pick up later, surely. Sherlock had at least six to twelve more hours with it and two more pills would not suffice. He had already taken a risk leaving the flat to get Sherlock juice and crackers, instilling the importance of checking in on Sherlock upon Mrs. Hudson. He was unwilling to leave again, especially when Sherlock was merely now napping instead of deeply sleeping. 

He heard the kettle’s scream and hurried down the stairs; just as he was pulling the kettle from the hot burner, a knock on the door surprised him. Probably Ms. Hudson, he thought, for whatever reason; a casserole perhaps? That would be nice, but not for Sherlock. He wouldn’t be able to stomach the heavy food. He padded over to the door and thrust it open with a wide smile, one he reserved specifically for their kind, old landlady. Instead, he was met with the very man he had just decided not to seek out: Mycroft stood, poised as ever, leaning slightly on the handle of his ever-present umbrella, a thin smile splayed across his lips. John’s smile melted off his face in record time, replaced with an artificial smile that he hoped, but did not believe, seemed somewhat genuine. 

“Dr. Watson,” he greeted, holding up a white prescription bag to John. “May I come in?”

John stood aside, allowing Mycroft to stride in. He immediately headed into the kitchen. “The kettle’s just boiled, would you like tea?” John said as he followed. 

John’s voice was hushed and he hoped Mycroft would take the hint and speak softly, not that Mycroft was ever very loud. Nevertheless, Mycroft lowered his voice, to John’s satisfaction. 

“I believe by now, you would be running a little low on these,” he placed the white bag on the round kitchen table while John poured two cups of tea. John handed Mycroft his and looked into the bag: one full bottle of the very prescription he had just been worrying about. He opened his mouth to question Mycroft but slowly closed it, knowing he would not get a straight answer. Instead, he nodded at the other man, giving him a small, thankful smile. 

“Thank you,” John said slowly and quietly. “I only had about two left. Much appreciated.”

Mycroft shrugged off John’s grateful praise. “What is truly appreciated is your diligence in care of my brother, Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft’s eyes were piercing and John felt for a moment that he could read all of his feelings, his every thought, right off his face. This thought was exceedingly unsettling, and he turned immediately to grab the cream from the fridge. Mycroft continued. 

“You know, when he was young and naïve, our mother used to coddle him thoroughly when he was ill; he enjoyed every minute of it. Though, as he grew older and the world wore him down, he began to resent the helplessness of it all, and, consequently, would push away any attempts to help. He’s been like that since his early teens—that’s just over two decades now, I believe.”

Mycroft paused, purposefully waiting for John to stop pretending to rummage in the fridge and face him. He slowly turned, but still did not quite look at the elder Holmes, instead focusing on the pouring and stirring of the cream, hoping his face was discrete and indifferent. Mycroft seemed to think that was enough and finished his speech. 

“Now it seems all it took was an exceptional army doctor,” Underlying meaning riddled Mycroft’s every word. “He’s let you become close enough to not mind the weakness so much. That is truly astounding, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m the replacement mummy,” John blurted hoping for a small chuckle; however, his audience was particularly stone faced. 

“Not quite, John,” the switch from official title of “Dr.” to his first name from the terribly formal Mycroft was like a jolt. He finally looked up at the other Holmes, squaring his shoulders and staring him right in the eye, knowing whatever emotion and thought crossed his eyes, Mycroft would read. Nevertheless, he would stand his ground. Instead, Mycroft simply finished quietly. “His receiving of your affections is certainly not out of maternal need, rather an entirely different need.”

John’s surprise was evident, he was sure. What need? Mycroft’s returning smile was thin and secretive. He turned and walked to the door, John following him as was custom. At the threshold, Mycroft turned and looked at John with a faint flicker of something unfamiliar to John in his eyes. 

“John, if I was able to pick this all up in one visit, don’t think for a moment that Sherlock has been oblivious,” Mycroft phrased it like a warning and John’s stomach knotted accordingly, his anxiety furthered when Mycroft continued. “However, it is truly a shame that you do not possess the same deductive powers, for you’re missing a very important component of it all.”

John’s voice wavered in his throat for a moment but was strong and smooth when he spoke. “And what’s that?”

Mycroft turned with a slight chuckle, stomping down the stairs and turning as he opened the door to the street, barely calling up so that John could hardly hear him. “Is it unrequited?”

***

Anger curled through Sherlock’s chest at the unheard reply of his brother’s. Sherlock had been woken from the slight doze the moment John took his hands from his back; he had kept his eyes closed, reveling in the momentary piece between aches and headache and nausea, simply allowing himself to enjoy the closeness of the situation. The kiss, however, had been a surprise. Cool and soft and lingering…

John was certainly a very alluring puzzle, one that he found himself more and more engrossed. Slowly but surely, John was becoming a mystery worthy of his every attention. He would be stupid to deny any feelings; though many would be surprised to discover that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, asexual. He, too, had physical needs that had to be met, if only so he could again fully focus on his work. This acknowledged, he was also not, if anybody had ever cared to wonder, a virgin. Who would want to sleep with the freak, right? Well, Sherlock knew how to hide it when necessary. Even John had never asked, though he doubted it was for the same reason as others, not based on assumptions rather than his delicate sensibilities. 

The kiss planted on Sherlock’s forehead had shattered his focus entirely—until he heard the knock and his brother’s voice. He listened as Mycroft instilled not only anxiety into John’s being, but also a small sense of…oh, what was the right word. Hope? Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was too presumptuous, even for him. However, it still angered him greatly that Mycroft put it upon himself to meddle in now the most intimate affairs. John was Sherlock’s private mystery, one he wished to solve alone, without any outside prodding. Mycroft’s insinuations, however, were certainly quite prodding. He had heard right up to John’s last inquiry of Mycroft as his older brother stomped heavily down the stairs. However, he had not heard Mycroft’s reply; he knew his brother well enough to know that he had certainly provided one, though perhaps it was vague and unhelpful to John, but a piece of information that Sherlock was sure would be helpful to him at some point, and he had missed it. 

Something suddenly occurred to him—it had been silent in the flat for a very long time. Had John fallen asleep on the couch while reading the newspaper? It wouldn’t be the first time. However, no; Sherlock would hear the man’s snores. What was he doing then? Mycroft had obviously pushed him into considering something that he, perhaps, had before thought impossible. Was it impossible? Sherlock squirmed in the bed. The thought of intimacy didn’t make him uncomfortable, as many people thought. Rather, Sherlock thought about everything logically and love was not logic. He thought about how great it would be but also how likely it would be to end. Sherlock wasn’t easy to deal with, and he wasn’t inclined to change. He was fine with the way he was; he was brilliant, he did what he loved. Sherlock knew that no matter what others thought, there was very little wrong with him. He saw the world differently. He saw it for what it was and it wasn’t always pretty. Though, admittedly, John had thoroughly convinced him that sometimes, it truly was. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” John’s voice from the doorway startled Sherlock; he attributed the lack of observation to his sickness and frowned deeply at the man now standing at his side. Sherlock rarely allowed himself to look at John—simply look. He felt it complicated things far more than they needed to be. However, now, after being cared for by the big hearted fool for the past few days, Sherlock found himself unable to stop himself. John was still wearing his jeans but was devoid of the horrendous jumper he had been wearing the previous evening; his torso was only obscured by a grey button-up shirt, for once, not tucked into his jeans. His eyes were sleepy but bright and deeply blue, a blue that sent calm tremors through Sherlock every time he looked into them. John’s dark blonde hair was shaggy and tousled carelessly after a night spent in Sherlock’s own bed.   
This thought made Sherlock warm unexpectedly in places gratefully obscured by the comforter. This purely biological reaction to physical attraction was not the first brought to Sherlock due to John; though, were it not for these reactions, Sherlock would’ve most likely completely ignored any feelings beyond that of friendship for his flatmate. However, his body’s reaction to the man was physical evidence to Sherlock of the feelings he previously wished he were never to be subjected to. He wished he did not feel like this, especially not when any action on the feelings would certainly jeopardize beyond repair the careful, beloved life he had created with John, banking primarily on their friendship—and nothing beyond friendship. Sherlock could calculate in an instance the possibility of a romantic relationship ending badly—he figured it was a 50/50 situation. He based his calculations off his and John’s previous relationships, their frequent arguing/fights, his behavioral problems, and John’s undoubting desire for Sherlock to change; he was most uncertain of the last proponent, basing this assumed desire of John’s off the similar desire of Sherlock’s previous lovers. He weighed this over the emotional pros that would undoubtedly ensue were they to take their relationship further.

“That was a quick nap, you should try to sleep more,” John instructed, stifling a cough. John was holding himself differently, Sherlock noticed, and something in the way he spoke to Sherlock alarmed the detective. John usually didn’t hide his adoration, perhaps thinking that it was concealed, simply not caring, or (most likely) somewhat unaware of the depth himself. However, Mycroft had alerted John to the idea that perhaps Sherlock was looking for the cues, noticing them and…doing what with them? But now John was going out of his way to hide any warmth in his tone, even obviously changing his normally inviting, kind body language to look hunched and unwelcoming. Sherlock let loose a long strain of crude curses in his mind, hoping that Mycroft would somehow hear them. John was self conscious now, the feeling made worse by his idea that Sherlock didn’t want anything, didn’t view John in the same way John viewed Sherlock. John probably over thought it to the assumption that Sherlock not only didn’t feel the same but most likely mocked John for his love, despised the sentiment that John directed at the detective. And this wholly untrue assumption was causing him to withdraw.   
This conclusion unexpectedly panicked Sherlock wholly; his many trains of thought were instantly derailed at this discovery and it was only proven true in Sherlock’s mind as John took a step away, averting his eyes, the inevitably painful frown pulling his lips into a doleful pout, making to leave. Sherlock was never prone to sentimental impulses, but one hit him in that moment, the first of many, and he stood, throwing his long arms around his retreating flatmate’s neck. It was such an unexpected move for both of them that they froze for a split second, Sherlock’s mind for once catching up with his body instead of vice versa. Sherlock’s first thought was that he should pull away immediately, tell John that he had tried to stand, got dizzy, and fell forward. However, as John’s arms slowly wound strongly across Sherlock’s back, locking him in place, he leaned in more, enjoying the feeling of warmth that John alone possessed and emitted. They stood locked in one another’s embrace for a few minutes, and Sherlock’s brain slowly began running a million miles an hour:

What was John thinking? Did he see that for Sherlock, this was more than just a hug? Did he see that it was more of Sherlock’s unspoken confession? Why had Sherlock done this? The only time he had ever been foolishly impulsive was when he had been using. Why did John have the same affect? Was it because, on some level, Sherlock truly knew that he needed John just as much, if not more so, than he thought he needed the drugs? What was John thinking? What did John want? Why did John have this affect on him? Was now the time to consider sentiment as an accurate and viable answer? Sentiment was the one thing that Sherlock didn’t fully understand, the one thing he believed he didn’t want to understand, the one thing he believed to be wrong with the human race, the cause of all evil, or at the very least all stupidity. To an extent, he knew he was right in some of those beliefs, but as he grew to admire and acknowledge John as an intellectual, he found his distaste for sentiment waning based on John’s adoption and use of it. John was fueled, like most, by emotions, only recently fully adopting reason and logic as an equal fuel. Now, in this most intimate of moments, John’s emotions were what Sherlock wished to fully attend to. 

Sherlock pulled back very slowly, not realizing how much he had been leaning into John due to his weakness. His legs shook a little as he forced his entire weight on them. He pulled back just enough to look into John’s eyes, search them for clues of what he was thinking. His pupils were dilated, though Sherlock had expected this. It was, of course, an indication of John’s physical reaction to Sherlock; no, Sherlock was much more concerned with the mental and emotional reaction. He was smiling at Sherlock, a wide but cautious smile—he was still unsure of Sherlock’s intent. However, that was okay with Sherlock because he himself was unsure of his own intent. His cheeks were flushed, indicating a little self conscious embarrassment, most likely at the unexpected intimacy—although, no; a brief glance down at John’s trousers, and the small bulge there, furthered Sherlock’s certainty of his physical reaction. There wasn’t so much of a bulge to suggest full or even half hard arousal, but enough to ascertain physical attraction. But it still wasn’t a good enough indication of what was going on in John’s head. He noticed John’s eyes shift momentarily to Sherlock’s lips and then back to his eyes. 

Sherlock was slowly panicking, growing restless at the prolonged intimacy and the lack of knowledge. He yearned to simply ask John what he wanted, though he knew that was far too outright, mostly for himself. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, though he had made it obvious it wasn’t quite friendship. Instead, he felt the need to deflect the tension.   
“Who?” Sherlock blurted and John’s eyebrows instantly shot down in confusion. 

“What?” he inquired. 

“Who was it? In your nightmare, who did you finally reach?” Sherlock watched closely as John dropped his arms from Sherlock’s back at the exact same time Sherlock dropped his from around John’s neck. John’s frown was inevitable, but to Sherlock’s immense relief, it wasn’t disappointed or angry, rather accepting. 

***

John stifled the sigh as he accepted Sherlock’s dismissal of their moment. It had been intimate and had nearly cemented the hope that Mycroft had planted in his head. Unrequited? No; much more likely requited, now. However, as Sherlock searched John’s face, he had been doing the same. He had seen the panic in Sherlock’s eyes, knew that the hug was more to Sherlock, knew he was just as unsure as John. Sherlock needed room to think, needed room to decide what he wanted, and John was ready to offer him that, knowing that he would come back with a decision sooner or later. John had waited this long, what was a little more time. 

He took a step back and offered a smile; it was small but it was true and he saw the light return to Sherlock’s stormy blue-grey-green-hazel eyes. 

“You’re still very weak, Sherlock,” John said. “So don’t push it and make yourself worse. However, if you want, I can make you some tea and you can sit in the front room for a bit. I know you feel cooped up here in your room.”

Sherlock smiled at him and nodded, taking a hesitant, shaky step. John stepped forward and offered his assistance by placing his arm around Sherlock’s waist, lending only some support since Sherlock was rather tall compared to John. He looked up at Sherlock questioningly and Sherlock nodded, accepting. They walked out into the front room and John deposited the detective on the couch. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” John said, turning to go into the kitchen.

“Why?” Sherlock inquired. “You’ve already boiled one.”

John froze, recognizing that this was Sherlock’s way of telling him that he knew of his brother’s visit and, undoubtedly, their conversation. The hug was making a little more sense now and John took a deep breath, the uneasiness brought forth once more by the thought of Sherlock’s knowledge of John’s feelings all along. Instead, he said slowly,

“It’s now cold.” John knew Sherlock would read the underlying question: how much did you hear?

He put a new kettle on to boil and shook two pills from the bottle Mycroft had delivered. He hurried into Sherlock’s bedroom briefly to retrieve the orange drink and made Sherlock quickly swallow the two pills before hurrying back into the kitchen to tend to the kettle. He stood unsteadily, preparing himself so that he didn’t look like a fool when he next looked at Sherlock. How obvious had he been making it for the past year? How long had Sherlock known and simply ignored John’s undoubtedly irritating unconscious cues? The kettle screamed and there was no avoiding it any longer. John poured tea into his own mug and one for Sherlock.

Sherlock was curled up in one corner of the couch; John handed him his tea and then took a seat on the other end of the couch. John stared at his cup for a moment before looking up to find Sherlock staring at him. John was immediately self-conscious. 

“What?” John demanded and he didn’t mean it to come out so defensively. Sherlock ignored the tone.

“Finish telling me about your dream,” Sherlock instructed and John frowned deeply. He had told Sherlock in a different mind frame, when they had been sharing a bed and he had been borderline delirious with a fever. Now, Sherlock was on the mend, it was clear. They were in the open, in the light…the entire scenario did not encourage John into relinquishing the final details. 

“Why are you so keen on hearing it?” John inquired and saw Sherlock give him a slight frown. 

“Because it was fascinating, but you didn’t finish,” Sherlock said. “I want to know.”

John crinkled his nose as he stared at his tea. John’s nightmares were incredibly personal, he was not used to sharing them. He shook his head and stood up, anxious to feel less confined and pressured. 

He took a step and a pain shot up his leg, causing him to limp. He cursed under his breath, knowing that it would fade in a little while. He was painfully aware of the prompt of the psychosomatic limp. He turned away from Sherlock and began limping away. 

“John…” Sherlock called and John growled. 

“Fine!” he said loudly, whipping around and facing Sherlock. “If you’re going to be so dreadfully persistent, I’ll tell you. It was you, in my dream. It was you suddenly against concrete, blood spreading from the back of your head, those eyes of yours blank…I was screaming at the other people, telling them how you were my friend…It was you, alright? It was you that I couldn’t save.”

John turned and stomped into the kitchen, seeing his dream flash in front of his eyes again. Gun shots, Sherlock’s face covered in blood, eyes dead…the brilliant man gone. It made his stomach clench and his heart race even just remembering. He sat at the table and put his head in his hands, covering his eyes, as if that would help. He didn’t hear Sherlock enter but he realized the change in proximity when Sherlock spoke, though he didn’t take his head from his hands. 

“It was me?” Sherlock persisted. 

“Yes,” John groaned in reply. He couldn’t believe how much that stupid dream was still affecting him; his throat was thick and his head panicked slightly at the thought of his detective dead. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Why me?”

John just shook his head slightly, “Why you? Are you kidding? It’s always you. They’re nightmares, Sherlock. It’s literally a dream where one’s worst fears are played out in their head.”

Suddenly, John’s chair was whipped around with surprising strength, jostling him from his position and finally forcing him to look at Sherlock, who had crouched down in front of where John sat, looking up into John’s face. 

“So, what’re you saying? That your worst fear is losing me again or not being able to save me?” Sherlock murmured and John found himself leaning forward just slightly, propelled by the strange look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Those really go hand in hand,” John replied softly and for a moment they were still, staring at each other with the same look: hesitant desire. For the first time since John had acknowledged that perhaps Sherlock wasn’t simply a flatmate to him, he wondered if Sherlock maybe felt similarly. It was clear in the way he was looking at John now; and if that wasn’t enough, John forced himself to note the dilated pupils. He knew that wasn’t much to go on, especially since Sherlock was still running at slight fever; however, the only other option would be to take Sherlock’s pulse, which he couldn’t without Sherlock knowing what he was getting at. The better thing to do would be to simply ask; Sherlock appreciated straightforward inquiries. John suspected, however, that Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure himself. That meant Sherlock certainly had to make the first move, Sherlock had to decide to go beyond the friendship. Otherwise, John would never quite know if this was what Sherlock wanted; he wouldn’t be sure if they wanted the same things. 

John’s hope deflated a little at this decision—it would be so much easier to just take Sherlock by his scruff and kiss him how John had wanted to kiss him for over a year, no matter Sherlock’s initial hesitance. Allowing Sherlock to decide for himself to make the first move would be time consuming and, perhaps, completely wrong. John could simply be misreading the signals and Sherlock would never make a move in the first place. John could be stuck in this sexual tension limbo potentially forever…but he still couldn’t do anything rash for fear of forcing Sherlock—

John’s train of thought was completely derailed by the sudden move of Sherlock’s head, the sudden meeting of their lips. It surprised John so thoroughly that he froze for a few full seconds before eagerly melting into Sherlock’s kiss. John was simultaneously fascinated and perplexed by how good Sherlock tasted even after days of being sick. He let Sherlock lead, following Sherlock’s darting, curious tongue with his own until they pulled away to catch a breath. 

“I’m going to get you sick,” Sherlock murmured off hand and John rolled his eyes. 

“Fuck me,” John said unceremoniously. 

Sherlock smirked at John and winked. “Oh, I plan to…however, patience, dear John. We’ve only just kissed.”

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock had just made an innuendo—not entirely uncharacteristic, however it had been in reference to them, together. He wasn’t sure how he had played out this scenario in his head, but John had certainly never pictured Sherlock to be the smooth one while John sat, eyes wide, dumbstruck. 

John didn’t know what to say or what to do. Obviously, he wanted to lean forward again since he had quenched his need for air for the time being…but John’s brain was working just as quickly, immediately questioning Sherlock’s act, the underlying motivation, and what it meant for their relationship. 

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock instructed immediately and John looked at him hesitantly. 

“Am I being too loud?” he said in automatic response. Only with Sherlock Holmes would John’s mere thinking be too loud. Sherlock gave him a smile that John had seen before but only in brief glances. Sherlock usually extinguished it before John could clearly see it; however, John liked to think that it was a caring smile. Not exactly loving, but it allowed John a glimpse at the great heart that ran alongside the great mind of Sherlock Holmes. 

“No, you’re over thinking—for once,” Sherlock said and John had learned to brush off his insults; this time was even easier because Sherlock was still very close and his curious smile was still in place. “You’re undoubtedly questioning.”

“Undoubtedly,” John confirmed. 

“You’re questioning why I kissed you, what I want, what you want, what we want,” Sherlock said, leaning back on his heels very slightly, but John still despised the small distance. His smile seemed a little wavering now, the evidence of his own wavering underneath the cool façade. That was one thing they would have to work on as a couple—John stopped that train of thought. He was getting ahead of himself. Wasn’t he? Sherlock continued. “You’re wondering where this is going, if it’s just going to be a fling, if not a fling, then what?”

John raised his eyebrows. Yeah, sure, he was the one over thinking things. “I think that was a little more in depth than I had gone thus far.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Well, I’ve run through all the scenarios, my dear John. I’ve recalculated based on slightly different variables and the likelihood of our relationship as more than flat mates working out is statistically higher. It is logical for me to take our relationship further; after all, you’ve already put up with me for this long and still like me and you, after all, are the man I—“

He cut off and his smile slipped into a frown as he was clearly at a loss for words. Perhaps he had a word in mind, but John didn’t let himself dwell on it. Instead he smiled at Sherlock and said,

“The man you most openly tolerate?”

This brought the smile back to his detective’s eyes and Sherlock leaned in again, lightly kissing John’s lips, as if teasing. 

“You could certainly phrase it like that, if you wish,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips and John hummed his response. Sherlock suddenly stood and swayed slightly; John remembered with a guilty jolt that he was still sick. 

“Let’s go into the living room, you still need rest, Sherlock,” John instructed and Sherlock nodded, motioning for John to lead the way. He did and plopped down in his armchair. To his immediate and happy surprise, rather than sitting on his own armchair across from John, Sherlock simply plopped in his lap, letting his legs hang over one side and propped his head up on his hand, his elbow resting on the back of the armchair next to John’s head. 

“We’ll need beginning rules, of course,” Sherlock said, instantly negotiating it like it was a problem—or, though John wasn’t sure if this was good or bad, a game. “How do we want to present ourselves publically? Or, I suppose, first, how do we want to view ourselves privately?”

His pause alerted John that it wasn’t a rhetorical question and John frowned. “Well, we haven’t even officially gone on any dates…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, don’t be stupid. We’ve lived together for over a year. We’ve gone on many outings that could certainly be viewed as dates, have been viewed as dates by many people.” 

“So…logically speaking…” John prompted. 

“Well, after the specification ‘dating’ is ‘exclusive’, correct?” Sherlock questioned. John snorted. 

“Do we really need to confirm that we’re exclusive to one another?” John rolled his eyes and Sherlock frowned. 

“Given, there is no question of my being exclusive, however, you have had many partners and I am unsure of how your specific dating ritual goes about given most of the girls you’ve dated didn’t last very long—“

“We’re exclusive,” John interrupted with finality. 

Sherlock grinned slightly. “Okay,” he said, back to business. “Then, I believe the next label would be ‘partners’.”

This hit John like a wave. He let his smile come slowly, but it built into a huge grin that he couldn’t even think to hide. Sherlock Holmes wanted to be his boyfriend. His boyfriend was Sherlock Holmes. 

He looked up at Sherlock and saw that he was watching him, smiling as well. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, long and hard again, until finally, he parted momentarily to say,

“I think that suggestion went over well.”

He leaned back in and John felt as if nothing could go wrong with the world at this point. However, were that true, his boyfriend would go stir crazy eventually from not having a case. John inwardly giggled like a teenage girl. His boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes. His boyfriend was Sherlock Holmes. 

Finally, they were interrupted by a short knock and then Mrs. Hudson entering; they didn’t quite pull apart in time for her to miss everything. Momentarily, her cheeks reddened a little but not nearly as much as John’s. 

“So sorry, dears!” she lamented and then tsked quietly. “Sherlock Holmes, you are going to get John sick!”

With that she shook her head and turned, heading back out of their flat. Before she completely left, however, she called back,

“Greg is downstairs, boys; I’ll go ahead and send him up.”

John’s eyes went wide and he looked up at Sherlock who didn’t look like he wanted to move. 

“Off, Sherlock,” John instructed and Sherlock looked down at him. 

“I’m comfortable,” he protested like a child. 

“Your rules, Sherlock,” John said, pushing him slightly. “We haven’t yet decided what we are publically to everyone.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and slid off John’s lap, slumping over to his own chair. Lestrade came in just as Sherlock sat and waved hello, holding up a white carry-away bowl.

“I’ve come baring chicken soup,” Lestrade said and John stood to appropriately welcome him. 

“Hello, Greg,” he said and offered him a seat at the couch, which he took. 

“Cheers, John,” he said and then squinted at John’s lips. “Bloody hell, John, put some chap stick on, you’re lips are bright red!”

John froze and wasn’t quick enough in his reply before Sherlock said, off-handedly, 

“Oh, they’re not chapped, I’m just a bit rough.”

John’s hand instantly slapped across his own forehead and turned to Sherlock in angered surprise. 

Sherlock seemed momentarily surprised by John’s anger and then realized. “Bit not good?” he asked John traditionally. John’s answer, however, was drowned out by raucous laughter. They both turned to Lestrade, who had broken into a fit. Sherlock was slowly smiling but John was still too embarrassed to join in. After a moment or two, Lestrade settled down a bit and sighed heavily. 

“I needed a good laugh today, thanks,” he said simply. “Anyway, I have not only come with chicken soup, I have also come with a case file.”

He pulled it from his coat and John was already shaking his head. 

“He can’t go out, he’s sick,” John said almost immediately. “He’s still mending.”

“Evidently not sick enough to rough you up a bit,” Lestrade wriggled his eyebrows at John, who reddened and frowned deeper. 

“Still sick,” he said angrily and Lestrade turned to Sherlock and looked at him with wide eyes. 

“Hence the soup,” he lamented, pushing it forward on the coffee table where he had put it down. 

“Let me see the file,” Sherlock said and Lestrade stood to pass it to him, getting the evil eye from John.

“It’s relatively simple, I think,” Lestrade said. “I’m nearly there, I’m just stressed. I have other cases piling up…families and bosses to please…”

Lestrade always looked tired, but today more so and that softened John a little. If Sherlock could solve it from the couch, he would be completely okay with it. He just didn’t want him exerting himself more than necessary. 

Sherlock snatched the file from Lestrade, probably eager to aim his genius at something worthwhile after so long. He scanned it, frowned, and threw it on the table.   
“I’m sick,” he told Lestrade, who then frowned. 

“That’s it? I came all this way for you to dismiss it?” Lestrade stood, angered and saddened. 

“Boring,” Sherlock said by way of explanation. 

“Sherlock…” John said slowly. “Help him out.”

Sherlock looked at John briefly but a smile flitted across his face before he turned to Lestrade. 

“The rose clippers,” he said slowly and Lestrade broke into a grin. 

“I knew it!” Lestrade said, eagerly, grabbing the file from the table. 

“You were nearly there,” Sherlock said, sighing. “Hardly worth the interruption.”

Lestrade grinned mischievously, first at Sherlock and then at John, who was frowning at Sherlock. 

“Well, by all means, boys, get back to your roughhousing,” Lestrade said, chuckling. John was embarrassed to the core but he was surprised at how well Lestrade was handling Sherlock’s hints. He didn’t get all embarrassed, rather teased them. It was a good start to a public display, he supposed. 

“When can I expect him back up and interrupting my crime scenes, Dr. Watson?” Lestrade said, smiling at John as he walked him to the door. 

“I’d give him at least two more days,” John said. “And that’s if he’s being difficult.”

“So, a day and a half, then?” Lestrade winked and started down the stairs. John sighed but smiled as he did so. He walked back into the sitting room and plopped onto his chair; Sherlock immediately stood and plopped on top of him, completely unaware of his weight. 

“I don’t want to be cooped up here for another two days, John,” Sherlock said quietly. It was strange, this intimacy, for both of them. John noticed things about Sherlock he never did before: now, his voice seemed almost pleading…as if he were frightened. John dismissed this idea, frightened of what? But it seems the brilliant Sherlock read his mind because suddenly, he forced John’s chin up so that he could stare into his eyes. 

“I get bored, cooped up here,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t like being bored.”

John frowned at the tragic euphemism. John had figured out long ago that “bored” didn’t mean the same thing to Sherlock as it did to everyone else. John could only imagine how it would feel like to Sherlock, after devouring all the stimulus of his surroundings so quickly, after devouring all the stimulus of even his mind palace, to have simply nothing to focus that brilliant mind on. How…loud it must be for him. A hand brushed through his hair and the tenderness of the touch surprised John. He turned to Sherlock who was staring at him intensely. 

“It’s okay, I’ll stay here until you see fit,” Sherlock said quietly and it surprised John thoroughly. 

“What?” John questioned and Sherlock looked down at John’s chest. 

“I don’t…like disappointing you, John,” Sherlock replied softly. “As mundane as that sounds, it seems to be true.”

John frowned deeply. “How are you disappointing me?”

“The expression you just wore, the one I’ve seen so many times,” Sherlock replied, even softer. “It’s disappointment, I know. You’re disappointed that I don’t want to stay with you.”

John quickly shook his head. “No, oh Sherlock, no! I’m not disappointed, you’re misreading it. I was…sad. I am sad that you’ve been cooped up here, with nothing substantial to focus all that brilliance on.” John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, this time forcing his detective to look at him. “I understand that you need stimulus.”

Sherlock stared at him and slowly smiled softly. “I wonder if I’ve always been misreading your expressions.”

John shrugged, not judging his own reactions a viable subject at the moment. Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s and breathed deeply for a moment. Finally, he spoke, his deep voice full of admiration. 

“You do understand, John. At least, as well as anyone ever will, and I…I appreciate that about you; however, you’re wrong when you say I have nothing substantial to focus on. You are all the stimulus I need,” Sherlock ended his declaration with a peck on John’s lips. 

“Yeah, okay, for now,” John allowed, knowing his best friend very well. This made Sherlock grin. 

“Yeah, okay, for now,” Sherlock said. “But even when I have you fully figured out, I won’t get bored. I will never get bored of my blogger, do you understand?”

John’s eyes widened at the suddenly intense eye-contact Sherlock was sustaining. There was so much promise and meaning behind his last comment, though he had delivered it with regularity. John brushed aside the goose bumps raising the hair on his skull as he thought about what Sherlock’s promise meant. Simply: it promised Sherlock himself.

“Yes,” he whispered and pulled Sherlock’s face to his. “Yes, I understand.”


	3. 9 Months Later

John had been dropping hints, Sherlock was aware. John wasn’t completely aware himself, Sherlock knew, but he was dropping the subconscious hints nonetheless. He was dropping hints about…marriage. Sherlock had crinkled his nose when he noticed the first hint: John had glanced into a ring advertisement, his eyes lingering over a smooth gold wedding band a bit too long to be casual, but too short to be realized. It had gone on for a week before Sherlock forced himself to think about that particular idea. He was surprised to find out that he wasn’t abhorrently opposed to it as he had thought. He knew that even if the idea officially occurred to John, he would never go through with it, fearing (always fearing) that he would push Sherlock too far and Sherlock would retreat, leave. John was always cautious in this regard; Sherlock was to blame, what with faking his death and staying dead for two years before reappearing in the doctor’s life. That would, indeed, instill a certain fear in any person. 

So Sherlock had decided to take that step. He sat at a table at Angelo’s, waiting for John. He had asked Angelo if he could rent out the entire restaurant, for just one night. Angelo refused to take any of Sherlock’s money and closed shop for the evening, free of charge. Sherlock was nervous, which made his genius brain practically scoff. 

He knew, logically, that he already planned on spending the rest of his life with John, no matter what. He knew that a ring and a piece of paper from the government would do nothing to solidify that to him—so maybe he was nervous about John. Did John plan on spending his life with Sherlock? Sherlock was pretty sure that had been in his cards when they had placed them on the table, forever ago. However, Sherlock still found his palms sweaty and his mind racing. This only increased when he saw John walk into the restaurant. Sherlock sat in their usual spot in the front of the restaurant by the window and John immediately slid into his spot at the edge, where it was easy to get in and out (military habits, Sherlock assumed). 

“Hello,” John greeted, leaning forward for a kiss, which Sherlock eagerly bestowed. 

“Hello,” Sherlock replied. 

“You’re alright, then?” John inquired, looking at Sherlock with a doctor’s precise scrutiny. “You look alright, but you seemed pretty urgent on the phone today.”

“I just wanted to have dinner with you,” Sherlock said. “I needed to know for certain when you got off from the surgery so I could tell Angelo what time we were coming.”

John looked around the empty restaurant. “I didn’t know you made reservations here,” he mumbled. “Seems like tonight, that would be pointless.”

“I made reservations,” Sherlock clarified. “For the whole restaurant.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” he frowned at Sherlock. “Are you in a particularly anti-people mood today?”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, no more than usual.”

“Than why?” John asked. “Why the privacy?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He scooted to the edge of his seat, staring into John’s eyes as he began. He had practiced this speech in front of the mirror for three hours that day. 

“John, I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all around obnoxious areshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet,” Sherlock began and John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock held up his hand, requesting silence. John frowned but obliged. Sherlock continued. “I was dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending of the happy. That is, until I met you. I never expected to be anyone’s best friend, much less their boyfriend of over nine months. And certainly not the boyfriend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love. You have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So sorry again about that last one. So know this, today you look at the man that you have saved—in short, the one person who loves you most in all the world. I promise to never let you down, and I will always be there for you. And I hope, if you accept me, that I will have a lifetime to prove it to you.”

With this Sherlock stood, walked to John’s side of the table, as John watched, small tears in his eyes. He knelt down and pulled a small box from his pocket. He popped it open and John stared, uncomprehending. Sherlock smiled, a rare genuine smile. 

“John, I love you, if I didn’t just make that apparent,” Sherlock said and John gave a choked chuckle. “Will you marry me?”

Sherlock tried internally rolling his eyes, but found it difficult due to his nervousness. John stared at him, first confused, then touched. He slowly slid down to the ground with Sherlock and nodded. 

“Yes, you ridiculous man of mine,” John replied, smashing his lips against Sherlock’s. When they finally broke apart, Sherlock slipped the band on John’s finger and retrieved another from his pocket. John swiped it and put it on Sherlock’s finger himself. 

“We’re engaged,” John said and laughed. “That’s absurd. Amazing, brilliant, but absurd. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I love you as well, John Watson,” Sherlock said, smiling at his fiancé. “Can we get off the floor now, though?”

John laughed. “Yes, Sherlock.”

They both stood and took their seats again, just as Angelo approached, a smile so big it could’ve blocked bullets. 

“Congratulations, boys!” Angelo cheered. “Wine! I must get you wine!”

He hurried off again and John reached across the table for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock accepted and they smiled at each other. Sherlock liked this feeling, it was the strongest one in his head right now. He was sure, then, that he would never get bored of John, no matter how much time they spent together. Hopefully, when they were together still, old and frail, Sherlock could explain to John what a magnificent, never ending, brilliant puzzle he was. Sherlock looked forward to it.

A beep of Sherlock’s phone made them both jump and Angelo approached with wine. Sherlock freed his hands and pulled his cell from his pocket. His screen announced a text from his brother. He glanced up and John, who looked at him curiously. 

“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed and John rolled his eyes. 

“He couldn’t give it a day?” John sighed as well. “We would’ve told him within a day ourselves.”

Sherlock frowned at John. “We would’ve?”

John rolled his eyes but smiled a little again. “Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened the text. 

**I see congratulations are in order, little brother. –MH**

Sherlock frowned at the screen before typing a quick reply. 

**Kindly get your fat nose out of my business, Mycroft. –SH**

He grinned as he pictured the distaste on his brother’s face when he opened it. John narrowed his eyes at this smile. 

“Play nice, Sherlock,” John warned and Sherlock laughed. 

“Never,” he replied before grinning and taking his fiancé’s hand again. 

***

John was overwhelmed. He had been for the last two months. That night at Angelo’s, they had decided to go somewhere and elope, just the two of them. Tell everyone when they got home. However, the next day, gay marriage in England was suddenly legalized. Mycroft’s power was stunning and terrifying. That afternoon, Sherlock and John had two pairs of angry parents demanding there be a ceremony, even if it were small. Sherlock had no reserve about disappointing his parents, but John felt horrible disappointing anyone. He eventually talked Sherlock into having a small ceremony with close family and friends only. In fact, John assured they could make the guest list right there: their parents, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly. Sherlock said that Angelo would be personally insulted were we not to invite him, so John obliged. John suggested inviting Mike, since he was the one whom introduced them but Sherlock vetoed it. John didn’t argue too much. Ten people, total. It would be smaller than most crime scenes they visited. This made Sherlock laugh, and thus sold the idea. 

Mycroft offered to arrange everything and John saw no reason to object, though Sherlock was relatively hesitant. He required Mycroft to send him information about all the major decisions but otherwise let his brother be. They had gone on with their lives as usual, solving crimes, eating at Angelo’s, playing the violin. Mycroft told them to wait a couple months just to let the politics about the legalization of it settle a bit. Two months later, John and Sherlock were in the back of a sleek black car—one of Mycroft’s—on their way to the Holmes family home in the country. It was about a forty-minute drive from London. Mycroft decided to have the small ceremony in the library of their estate. John frowned as they neared the house, picturing the size of it if the library alone could hold ten people comfortably. 

They finally pulled up and John was not disappointed. The house was large and extravagant, looking like a small castle rather than an actual house.

“You’re rich,” John deduced which earned a snort from Sherlock.

“My parents are rich, my brother is rich,” he corrected. 

“Did you ever really need a flatmate?” John asked, staring widely up at the huge house. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly. “My parent’s cut me off when I started spending their money on cocaine.”

John turned to him and he gave a small smile. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

Almost just as he said it, two men dressed in white shirts and pressed pants came out, opened the boot for their suits, and ushered them into the house. They were pushed into one room with two mirrors, their suits hung on each of the mirrors. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Mycroft is a controlling snob even at my own wedding,” Sherlock glared around, expecting Mycroft to be able to tell. Just as he was doing so, there was a knock on the door. John shot Sherlock a warning look as he went to the door. He opened it to see Mycroft. 

“You’re making Sherlock very irritated, Mycroft,” John said lowly but Sherlock seized the door from him and glared at his brother. 

“You make me sick, trying to make us your pawns on our day, Mycroft,” Sherlock spat and John turned, placing a calming hand on his chest. 

“Sherlock, you need to relax,” John said, his tone soothing. “It’s our wedding day, nothing can ruin it. Just breathe.”

John turned to Mycroft and frowned. “I think it’s best if you just leave us to get dressed, alright?”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “You have twenty five minutes, boys. Then I believe your shared best man would like to have a quick chat.”

John and Sherlock had agreed that Lestrade should be their joint best man. He would help handle Mycroft and his tyranny. They weren’t going to have a best man at all, but Lestrade seemed like a kicked puppy when they had initially told him that. John and Lestrade had become quite close over the two years of Sherlock’s absence. Lestrade had kept John from…many things. He had helped him get back to his job. Even though the pain never stopped until Sherlock himself reappeared, Lestrade helped him move with it, get a little used to life with it. Sherlock would always be John’s best mate, of course, but Lestrade was now up there as well. 

They got dressed quickly, pausing for kisses and gropes here and there. They would go on holiday for a few days in Ireland. John wanted to show Sherlock Dublin, since he had surprisingly never been. He had gone to certain spots in Ireland in order to dismantle certain Moriarty ties there in his death spell, but not to the city Dublin itself. 

They were dressed in a matter of minutes, both wearing nearly matching suits. It was a three piece suit in black; however, John wore a dark blue button-up underneath with a black tie and Sherlock wore his dark purple shirt, John’s favorite. Mycroft had asked him to wear a tie or a bow tie but Sherlock had refused, instead leaving the first two buttons undone. John approved. 

They kissed and talked for the remaining quarter hour until there was another knock. John answered again to find Lestrade. He gave John a hug and a congratulations before he turned to Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock accepted though he seemed resigned about it. Finally, Lestrade looked at them both. 

“Listen, John,” Lestrade began. “I was wondering if I could have a word with Sherlock in private.”

John frowned. “Lestrade, no shop talk on our wedding.”

Lestrade laughed. “Oh, no! It’s not about a case, I promise. Just a word.”

John smiled a little, cautious smile and nodded. “Sure, I’ll go wander for a few minutes.”

He turned and left the room, the door giving a resolute click as he closed it. He stared at the empty hallway and frowned. He had no clue how he felt about this. 

***

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with curious caution. ‘A word’ sounded vaguely ominous. Lestrade looked at him with equal caution. 

“Listen, Sherlock…” his voice trailed off as he grasped at a place to stop. 

“This isn’t one of those ‘break his heart and I’ll break your legs’ conversations, is it?” Sherlock inquired, his eyes narrowing. “Because usually that conversation ensures when a couple begins dating, not on their wedding day; furthermore, it seems a little too brotherly for a friend.”

Lestrade frowned at him. “No, Sherlock. I just need…affirmation.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Affirmation? Of my marrying John?”

“Affirmation that after a few years, you won’t leave again,” Lestrade clarified. “I need you to tell me that you won’t up and leave, you won’t get bored. That you really mean you’re entire lifetime with John.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Lestrade!” he said, his voice angry and louder than normal. “The audacity!”

“It’s not audacious, you daft git,” Lestrade bit back. “Everyone thought you two were inseparable from the start and then you went throwing yourself off a building and disappearing for two years! You weren’t there when he was immobilized in his bed for an entire week, not sleeping, not moving, not blinking. I moved into your guys’ apartment for a tick and you weren’t there when he woke himself up screaming your name night after bloody night for months. You weren’t there when he was kneeling at your graveside with his—“

Lestrade stopped himself there, his eyes widening a bit before he went on. “My point is, Sherlock, you weren’t there, and I need to know that you will be for as long as you live—actually live.”

Sherlock frowned at him, his stomach uneasy. Hearing these things about John made him borderline nauseous. But Lestrade was holding back a detail. “What were you going to say about him at my graveside?”

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. “Oh, Sherlock. You’re missing my point.”

“No, Lestrade, I understand,” Sherlock said. “And I can assure you that I will stay by his side until the day we both actually die—together. You have my word. However, what were you saying about my graveside?”

Lestrade closed his eyes. “Please let it go, Sherlock. He wouldn’t want you to know.”

This only strengthened Sherlock’s resolve to figure it out. He had the pieces he knew it, he just needed to coax a little more information out of Lestrade. 

“Why would he go to my graveside, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked. “If he was particularly unhappy? When he missed me most?”

Lestrade weighed whether or not he should just leave. However, he had been telling John to tell Sherlock about their time apart for ages. “When he was most desperate,” he finally replied. Sherlock’s mind was racing. He had the answer, he knew he could figure this out. He began to speak out loud. 

“This is obviously a big deal since you stopped yourself from telling it to me after detailing other instances,” Sherlock began. “So it was monumental and therefore must have left certain tendencies. What did I notice different about John? It would be small things, most symptoms of his grief were erased when I came back. What things have I noticed? He has an odd aversion to metal utensils…he cringes when he takes a bite of something off a metal fork or spoon, even if it’s his favorite food. He even saves plastic utensils from take-away to use instead. So strong aversion, a reminder. He…he has a new gun…”

The pieces clicked in Sherlock’s mind and he stared at Lestrade in horror. Anger slowly grew in his chest, along with a deeper sadness than ever experienced. 

“He…he tried to kill himself…put his gun in his mouth—“ Sherlock’s voice cracked and tears sprung into his eyes as he thought of his John, sitting at Sherlock’s grave, tears streaming down his face, his gun in his mouth…ready to pull the trigger next to his best friend, wanting to join his best friend. Sherlock’s hand flitted to his mouth in horror as the tears spilled over. His John. So low. 

Sherlock’s knees trembled and he fell onto them, his hand still to his mouth. He looked up at Lestrade slowly, dropping his hand. 

“How could you let him do that?” his voice sounded broken and Lestrade backed up. 

“I didn’t let him do anything,” Lestrade said angrily. “It was you who left. He had been getting worse and I knew that was where he went when he was feeling desperate enough to beg you—beg you to come back. I wasn’t even going to go check on him, thinking he needed to be alone. But I did, and I saw him there kneeling at your grave, forehead resting on your gravestone, gun in mouth. I ran, I tackled him. I made him move out of Baker Street, get his job back at the surgery. I made him go through the motions until he did them all by himself. He was still horribly depressed, but he was working through it. It didn’t happen, Sherlock, clearly. But it was close. And that’s why I need to know that you’re serious when you say forever.”

Sherlock was silent, tears rolling down his face as he just slowly nodded, his world falling apart just a little bit. His blogger, his doctor, his soldier, his John. Nearly gone forever. 

“I can see now, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, kneeling in front of him. “You’re not going to leave him.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. 

“I’ve wandered and I was just ushered back here, so I hope you boys are decent because I’m coming in,” John said. 

He opened the door, a smile on his face. When he took in the scene before him, it immediately fell. 

***

John’s instinct was to punch Lestrade, but instead, he forced himself to simply fly to Sherlock, pushing Lestrade out of the way. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and Sherlock put his hands on his chest, his tears stopping. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “John, I’m so sorry.”

John turned and glared at Lestrade. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry John,” Lestrade held up his hands, standing slowly. “I didn’t tell him, he figured it out for himself.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You tried to kill yourself at my graveside,” Sherlock murmured, his voice breaking and John turned back to him. Sherlock seemed so broken just then, letting John see all the pain, not of just finding this out, but of not being there, of being gone for two years. 

“Oh…Sherlock,” John sighed, pressing his forehead against his soon-to-be-husband’s. 

“I know this is rich coming from me, but how could you, John?” Sherlock murmured and John frowned but did not pull away. “You’re too great a man, too kind, too caring to waste your life like that.”

John did pull away then. “That is rich, thinking it’s so horrible for me to commit suicide but not for you.”

“John, I didn’t actually die,” Sherlock responded slowly. 

“I’m aware,” John replied, still frowning. 

“I am so sorry for all the pain I have caused you, John,” Sherlock said slowly leaning in to embrace John. “I am so, so very sorry and I promise I will do nothing of that magnitude again.”

“Ah, just everything of a lesser magnitude,” John said, snorting. This made Sherlock smile a bit. 

“Count on it,” he replied and John darkly chuckled into Sherlock’s curls and then pulled back. 

“Alright, I will,” he told Sherlock. “Just remember, that was a long time ago, and I didn’t actually die either. And I don’t plan on ever, ever doing it again, alright? So long as you can promise me the same.”

Sherlock smiled. “I promise I won’t ever do anything of the sort. If I die, it’s due to old age by your side or being shot and/or otherwise killed on a case.”

“Thank you for putting that into perspective for me,” John rolled his eyes, frowning. 

A knock made them both stand and John used his shirt that he had left on the floor to wipe away Sherlock’s remaining tears before Mycroft entered. He took one look at his brother and frowned deeply. 

“Shall I come back in ten minutes?” he asked and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“Depends on what you’re ushering us away to,” Sherlock said. “Another room in mummy’s house, or to our actual wedding.”

“It would seem that it is, indeed, time for the exchanging of vows and whatnot, little brother,” he said and then exchanged a glance between John and Sherlock. “Assuming that is still the plan.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Sherlock scoffed but Mycroft looked to John. 

“Yes, Mycroft, the wedding is still on,” John said, rolling his eyes. 

Mycroft escorted them down the stairs and turned a few corners before allowing them in the side entrance to the library. Their guests were arranged on two large very plush velvet sofas, a larger one in front with the smaller one in back. A priest stood in front of the sofas, Lestrade next to him. Sherlock’s and John’s parents sat on the first sofa, along with Harry. There was also an empty spot next to Sherlock’s parents for Mycroft. The back sofa had Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Molly’s new husband, and an empty spot for Lestrade. 

Sherlock and John greeted the family first, giving kisses to the parents and hugs to Harry. Then they took their spots opposite each other in front of the priest. He shook both their hands and started his spiel, one that John couldn’t quite pay all the attention he was supposed to because he was staring at his beautiful husband. He smiled at Sherlock who still looked a bit shaken; Sherlock smiled back though, so he took that to be a good sign. First, Sherlock was asked the question of ‘will you take John Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband…’. He grabbed John’s hands and gave him a huge, genuine grin, extremely rare from Sherlock. 

“Of course, I do, why else would I be here?” Sherlock said and the priest nodded, smiling. 

The priest asked him he same question and he grinned at his beautiful, ridiculous husband. John knew there was only one answer: “Oh, God yes.”


End file.
